BY  WILLIAM    HENRY  DRUMMOND 


The  Habitant,  and  Other  French-Canadian 
Poems. 

The  Voyageur,  and  Other  Poems. 
Johnnie  Courteau,  and  Other  Poems. 
The  Great  Fight. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


.  OF  GAUF.  UIWARY.  JA* 


THE  GREA 
fIGHT 


POEMS 


SKETCHES 
Jjl  &v 

Dan 


i»  »k«k€  i«k  -t*e~-«*rt  'quake. ' ' 

The  Great  Fight. 

From  a  drawing  by  Frederick  Simpson  Coburn. 
EDITED,    WITH      • 

nov 


Wi 

rretj- 


New  Y 
0.  P.  V 

r  be  *n 


THE  GREAT 
EIGHT  ji  j 

POEIIS    :::::: 
:    :  AND  SKETCHES 

jjl  Bv  William  Henry 
Drummond,  M.D.  jjl 


EDITED,    WITH    A    BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH,    BY 

nav  Harvev  Drummond 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS   BY 

ftederick  Simpson  Coburn 


New  York  and  London 

0.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

Ube  Knickerbocker  press 
1908 


COPYRIGHT,  1908 

BY 
MAY  HARVEY  DRUMMOND 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 
BY  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Ube  •ftnfcfcerbocfeer  preae,  Hew 


LOVINGLY  DEDICATED 

TO   THOSE   THREE   BROTHERS 

WHO    WERE    HIS    PRIDE    AND  JOY     WHILE    HE     LIVED,    AND 

NOW  THAT  HE    HAS    GONE    REMAIN    A    STRONG 

TOWER  OF  DEFENCE  TO   HIS  FAMILY 


21 29248 


William  Henry  Drummond. 

From  a  photograph. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND 

BY  S.  WEIR  MITCHELL,  M.D.,  LL.D. 

PEACE  to  his  poet  soul.    Full  well  he  knew 
To  sing  for  those  who  know  not  how  to  praise 
The  woodsman's  life,  the  farmer's  patient  toil, 
The  peaceful  drama  of  laborious  days. 

He  made  his  own  the  thoughts  of  simple  men, 
And  with  the  touch  that  makes  the  world  akin 
A  welcome  guest  of  lonely  cabin  homes, 
Found,  too,  no  heart  he  could  not  enter  in. 

The  toilworn  doctor,  women,  children,  men, 
The  humble  heroes  of  the  lumber  drives, 
Love,  laugh,  or  weep  along  his  peopled  verse, 
Blithe  'mid  the  pathos  of  their  meagre  lives. 

While  thus  the  poet-love  interpreted, 
He  left  us  pictures  no  one  may  forget — 
Courteau,  Batiste,  Camille  mon  frfcre  and  best, 
The  good  brave  cure,  he  of  Calumette. 

With  nature  as  with  man  at  home,  he  loved 
The  silent  forest  and  the  birches'  flight 
Down  the  white  peril  of  the  rapids'  rush, 
And  the  cold  glamour  of  your  Northern  night. 

Some  mystery  of  genius  haunts  his  page. 
Some  wonder  secret  of  the  poet's  spell 
Died  with  this  master  of  the  peasant  thought. 
Peace  to  your  Northland  singer,  and  farewell! 


IN  offering  to  the  public  this  short  bio- 
*  graphical  sketch  of  William  Henry  Drum- 
mond,  I  do  so  with  the  utmost  diffidence. 
The  task  of  portraying  a  many-sided  char- 
acter such  as  his  could  only  be  successfully 
accomplished  by  one  more  gifted  with  the 
pen  than  I,  and  therefore  for  a  novice  like 
myself  it  remains  but  to  be  faithful  to 
facts  without  any  attempt  at  literary  effect. 
This  has  been  my  endeavour,  and  Dr.  Drum- 
mond's  friends  must  judge  if  the  picture 
bears  any  resemblance  to  the  original. 

When  a  merry  mood  was  upon  him,  Wil- 
liam would  keep  us  all  in  roars  of  laughter 
with  his  witty  nonsense.  At  these  times  he 
would  turn  to  me  with  mock  severity,  saying: 
"If  you  were  the  right  kind  of  wife,  you 
would  run  for  your  note-book  and  take  down 


Vlll 


Preface 


these  'words  of  wisdom'  as  they  flow  from 
my  lips.  But  a  man  is  never  a  hero  to  his 
valet  or  his  wife."  And  I  would  answer 
back  that  in  my  mind  there  was  a  store  of 
notes  which  would  some  day  be  published 
under  the  title  of  ' '  Side-Lights  on  the  Author 
of  The  Habitant"  —a  book  which  would 
astonish  the  public  and  out-sell  any  of  his. 
Little  did  we  dream  that  his  merry  jesting 
would  so  soon  be  hushed,  and  that  I  should 
indeed  be  left  to  keep  the  promise  so  lightly 
made. 

To  those  who  knew  William  Henry  Drum- 
mond  and  his  life-work  at  all  intimately,  the 
title  of  this  book,  The  Great  Fight,  will  ap- 
peal not  only  in  its  relation  to  the  poem 
bearing  the  title,  but  infinitely  more  to  his 
own  whole-hearted  "fight"  for  national 
unity.  The  poems  written  by  him,  and 
published  in  previous  volumes,  viz:  The 
Habitant,  Johnnie  Courteau,  and  The  Voya- 
geur,  did  perhaps  more  than  anything 
else  to  bring  into  sympathetic  touch  the 
French  and  English  races  in  Canada.  Of 


Preface 


IX 


his  purpose  he  wrote  in  the  preface  to  his 
first  volume,  The  Habitant  : 

"  Having  lived,  practically,  all  my  life,  side 
by  side  with  the  French-Canadian  people,  I 
have  grown  to  admire  and  love  them,  and  I 
have  felt  that  while  many  of  the  English- 
speaking  public  know,  perhaps  as  well  as 
myself,  the  French-Canadian  of  the  cities,  yet 
they  have  had  little  opportunity  of  becoming 
acquainted  with  the  habitant,  therefore  I 
have  endeavoured  to  paint  a  few  types,  and, 
in  doing  this,  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  I 
could  best  attain  the  object  in  view  by  having 
my  friends  tell  their  own  tales  in  their  own 
way,  as  they  would  relate  them  to  English- 
speaking  auditors  not  conversant  with  the 
French  tongue." 

The  poems  and  prose  sketches  contained 
in  this  volume  were  written  at  various  times, 
but  mainly  since  the  publication  of  his 
last  book,  The  Voyageur.  Some  are  con- 
nected with  his  life  at  Kerr  Lake,  in  the  now 
famous  Cobalt  District,  where  he  died;  some 
are  in  dialect,  and  deal  with  French-Canadian 


Preface 

life ;  and  others  relate  to  his  own  people,  the 
Irish. 

It  has  seemed  to  me  advisable  to  write 
a  few  words  of  explanation  and  comment 
concerning  some  of  the  poems  and  prose  pieces 
contained  in  this  volume,  which  may  be  of 
interest  to  the  reader.  First,  then,  a  word  as 
to  "The  Great  Fight."  This  poem  will  be 
better  understood,  if  the  reader  is  in  posses- 
sion of  the  following  information.  E very- 
good  "Canayen"  has  his  own  particular 
patron  saint,  but  one  and  all  unite  in  al- 
legiance to  the  patron  saint  of  Quebec,  Saint 
John  the  Baptist,  or  St.  Jean  Baptiste,  or 
again  as  he  is  familiarly  known  "The  Leetle 
Jean  Bateese."  On  the  Saint's  Feast  Day, 
throughout  the  Province,  processions  take 
place,  and  he  is  represented  by  a  small  boy 
clad  in  sheep-skins,  bearing  a  cross  in  his 
hand,  who  is  driven  throughout  the  city. 
It  is  a  proud  day  for  the  chosen  boy,  but  the 
pleasure  he  may  get  out  of  it  depends  very 
largely  upon  the  weather. 

You  will  find  in  the  home  of  almost  every 


Preface 


XI 


habitant  a  print  of  the  saint,  and  sometimes 
the  more  fortunate  one  is  the  possessor  of  a 
plaster  cast,  and  he  has  a  natural  and  per- 
sonal pride  in  his  own  particular  statuette. 
So  in  "The  Great  Fight,"  the  fact  that  the 
giddy  young  Joe  Beliveau  kisses  Camille's 
pretty  wife  is  passed  over,  but  on  the  first 
word  of  disparagement  of  his  "Leetle  Jean 
Bateese"  the  battle  begins. 

In  "The  First  Robin"  is  brought  out  the 
old  superstition  that  the  first  robin  of  spring 
brings  good  crops  and  good  luck  to  the 
farmer  with  whom  he  makes  his  first  home. 
The  Doctor,  in  his  practical  humorous  way, 
makes  the  old  belief  come  out  true,  just 
as  "good  luck"  is  generally  attained,  by  the 
hard  daily  work  of  the  farmer  with  whom 
the  robin  makes  his  first  home. 

Among  the  Doctor's  dearest  friends  was 
the  Honorable  Peter  White,  of  Marquette, 
Michigan,  a  pioneer  of  the  northern  penin- 
sula. Hence  "Pierre  LeBlanc,"  which  will 
be  appreciated  by  the  many  by  whom 
Mr.  White  was  known  and  loved,  not  only 


Xll 


Preface 


in  Michigan,  but  throughout  the  United 
States  and  Canada. 

As  for ' '  Boule  ' '  — well,  what ' ' hunter  man ' ' 
has  not  had  or  known  a  dog  like  "Boule " ? 

In  "  Chibougamou "  we  hear  of  the  habi- 
tant class  when  afflicted  with  the  northern 
gold  and  silver  fever.  Some  few  have  been 
successful,  but  "Chibougamou"  tells  the  tale 
of  one  of  the  many  who  failed.  But  mark 
the  happy  touch  in  the  home-coming,  and 
the  contented  feeling  that  after  all  he  has  in 
Louise  "the  bes'  of  all." 

The  subtle  sarcasm  of  "Deer  Hunting" 
will  appeal  to  healthy-minded  lovers  of  the 
sport,  and  pray  Heaven  it  may  appeal  to 
others  too.  I  am  reminded  that  the  poem 
tells  the  general  experiences  and  feelings  of 
the  "deer  slaughterer"  so  truly  that  men 
of  that  class  may  not  realize  the  sarcasm, 
or  understand,  but  I  think  they  will.  If  the 
shaft  shot  in  this  poem  alone  finds  its  mark, 
this  book  will  have  justified  itself. 

The  short  head-note  that  accompanies 
"The  Tale  of  a  Cocktail"  makes  further 


Preface  xiii 

explanation  unnecessary,  at  least  to  male 
readers.  We  have  all  suffered. 

"The  Spanish  Bird"  was  written  in  the 
Laurentian  Club  House  at  Lac  la  Peche. 
The  Doctor  found  the  chief  of  the  chicken 
clan  one  morning  in  a  seemingly  discon- 
tented mood.  Hence  the  lay. 

"The  Godbout"  is  also  connected  with 
the  Laurentian  Club  and  should  appeal  to 
members  of  that  organisation.  The  "Com- 
modore" all  members  know  and  love.  They 
know,  too,  his  love  of  the  Laurentides,  and 
the  leaping  trout  of  its  myriad  lakes.  But 
once  the  Commodore  lapsed,  or  seemed 
to  lapse,  from  grace,  and  sought  a  salmon 
stream,  the  Godbout.  His  closest  friends 
were  heartbroken  at  his  fall,  but  one  short 
season  sufficed  the  errant  sportsman,  and 
he  returned  to  his  old  love,  if  possible,  more 
ardent  than  ever. 

Most  cities  have  within  their  limits  a 
square  or  park,  especially  attractive  to  the 
"bummer"  population.  In  Montreal  it  is 
Victoria  Square,  and  while  the  verses  bearing 


XIV 


Preface 


that  title  have  special  interest  to  Montrealers, 
they  will  still  be  appreciated  by  citizens  of 
other  towns  where  similar  resting-places  exist. 

William  Drummond  was  perhaps  above 
all  an  Irishman,  warm-hearted  and  whole- 
souled,  with  an  impulsive  love  for  all  things 
Irish.  Hence  his  "He  Only  Wore  a  Sham- 
rock." The  motive  of  the  poem  is  tersely 
explained  in  a  head-note.  The  Doctor,  it 
may  be  here  remarked,  was  very  much 
pleased,  a  few  years  later,  when,  after  a 
visit  to  Ireland  by  Her  late  Majesty  Queen 
Victoria,  a  special  order  was  issued  al- 
lowing the  men  in  the  Irish  regiments 
to  wear  their  native  emblem  under  certain 
conditions. 

"We're  Irish  Yet"  speaks  for  itself.  It 
was  written  specially  for,  and  was  read  by 
the  author  himself  at,  the  Annual  Dinner 
of  the  St.  Patrick's  Society,  in  Montreal, 
on  St.  Patrick's  Day,  1907,  a  few  days  before 
the  author's  death.  It  rings  simple  and 
true  and  will  touch  the  hearts  not  only  of 
Irishmen,  but  of  men  of  other  lands. 


Preface  xv 

"Silver  Lake  Camp"  will  bring  back 
memories  to  those  who  love  the  life  in  the 
open.  No  need  of  further  words. 

Of  the  poems  connected  with  the  Doctor's 
life  in  the  Cobalt  District  of  Ontario,  "Mar- 
riage" is,  I  think,  as  perfect  in  quiet  humour 
as  one  could  wish.  If  you  read  it  once,  you 
read  it  again  and  again,  and  always  with  the 
quiet  pleasure  that  true  humour  brings, 
and  you  grow  to  sympathize  with  the  rogue, 
who  has,  as  the  Irish  put  it,  "a  rag  on  every 
bush." 

In  "Bloom,"  the  soft  flower-like  pink  of  a 
Cobalt  vein,  known  as  Cobalt  Bloom,  gives 
promises  of  riches  to  the  prospector,  and  in 
that  District  is  certainly  the  only  bloom 
for  him. 

Mining  men  will  naturally  appreciate  "The 
Calcite  Vein"  more  than  others,  but  those— 
and  they  are  many — who  have  only  dabbled 
in  mines  will  understand,  too,  that  if  the 
vein  does  not  "go  'way  down"  things  gen- 
erally will  "go  'way  up." 

The    "stranger   man    wit'    hees   hair   all 


Preface 


w'ite,  "  referred  to,  is  a  well-known  mining 
engineer,  one  of  the  best  authorities  on 
things  Cobaltish,  whose  white  hair,  how- 
ever, denotes  experience,  not  age. 

In  a  mining  camp  like  Cobalt,  typhoid 
fever  is  apt  at  times  to  rage,  especially  in  the 
early  days  of  the  settlement,  and  the  simple 
tale  of  "The  Boy  from  Calabogie"  was,  alas! 
applicable  to  many  a  bright  young  life  that 
ended  there.  But,  most  of  all,  now,  it  seems 
to  tell  the  tale  of  the  passing  of  the  poet 
himself.  He  went  to  Cobalt  in  seeming 
health  and  strength,  when  duty  called,  and 
only  a  few  days  later,  came  back,  and  like 
Dannie,  at  the  train,  "we  lifted  up  the  long 
box,  without  a  word  to  say." 

"Philorum  Abroad"  was  the  beginning  of 
a  series  of  letters  which  the  author,  after  his 
return  from  the  "Old  Country,"  had  in  mind 
to  write,  but  he  hated  to  express  himself  in 
prose,  and  these  two  letters  are  all  that  he 
accomplished. 

The  poems  now  offered  in  this  volume  are 


Preface  xvii 

the  last  from  the  author  of  the  Habitant. 
Some  of  them  have  not  received  his  finishing 
touches,  and  he  perhaps,  always  modest, 
always  underrating  his  own  work,  might 
have  held  some  back,  but  they  all  ring  true 
and  clean  and  healthy,  and  in  them,  whether 
humorous  or  sad,  there  are  simplicity  and 
a  direct  appeal  to  the  heart.  And  so  we 
let  them  all  go,  just  as  we  have  found  them, 
that  the  people,  who  have  loved  their  auth- 
or's work,  may  have  all,  even  to  little 
scraps  like  "The  Doon,"  with  its  gentle 
touch,  revealing  the  reverence  and  love  for 
things  our  forefathers  knew  and  loved,  just 
as  his  French-Canadian  verses  revealed  the 
love  and  esteem  he  bore  towards  the  people 
and  land  he  knew  so  well  himself. 

In  conclusion  I  offer  my  heartfelt  thanks 
to  those  friends  who  have  so  kindly  con- 
tributed material  for  this  sketch,  and  copies 
of  poems  which  had  long  since  passed  from 
my  possession.  And  I  would  here  make 
a  special  acknowledgment  of  my  indebted- 


XV111 


Preface 


ness  to  one  friend,  Mr.  E.  W.  Thomson,  for 
his  kind  encouragement  and  advice,  without 
which  the  work  might  never  have  been 
accomplished. 

MAY  HARVEY  DRUMMOND. 

MONTREAL,  1908 


^u.i^^r-^ 

The  Drummond  Plot  in  Mount  Royal  Cemetery,  Montreal. 

The  Doctor  is  buried  under  the  square  stone  at  the 
right  of  this  Celtic  Cross. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND 

By  S.  Weir  Mitchell,  M.D 

PREFACE 


PAGE 
V 


Vll 


WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND  .          .          3 

A  Biographical  Sketch,  by  May  Harvey  Drummond 


WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND 

A  Poem,  by  E.  W.  Thomson 
POEMS: 

THE  GREAT  FIGHT 

VICTORIA  SQUARE 

MARRIAGE  . 

WE  'RE  IRISH  YET 

CHIBOUGAMOU     . 

THE  FIRST  ROBIN 

BLOOM 

THE  BOY  FROM  CALABOGIE  . 

THE  CALCITE  VEIN 


49 


55 
61 

65 

7i 
74 
81 

87 
89 


xx  Contents 


PAGE 


PIERRE  LEBLANC          .  .          .96 

SILVER  LAKE  CAMP  ....  101 
THE  TALE  OF  A  COCKTAIL  .  .  .  103 
THE  LAND  WE  LIVE  IN  AND  THE  LAND 

WE  LEFT.          ....      107 
DEER-HUNTING  .  .          .     108 

"HE  ONLY  WORE  A  SHAMROCK"  .  .  m 
THE  GODBOUT  .  .  .  113 

DOONSIDE  .....      117 

THE  SPANISH  BIRD      .          .          .          .118 

BOULE  ......        120 

CAUDA  MORRHU.E        ....      126 

SKETCHES: 

THE  MONTMORENCI  ELECTION  .  .  133 
PHILORUM  ABROAD  ....  144 


JJJirjfratiom 


FACING 
PAGE 


"  DE      HOUSE     is      SHAKE     LAK'     BEEG 
EART'QUAKE"  .          .       Frontispiece 

The  Great  Fight 

WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND           .          .         iv 
From  a  photograph 

"THE  WHITE- WALLED  HUTS  THAT  STREW 

THE  SHORE 
FROM  CASTLEGAL  TO  OLD  BELLEEK" 

BELLEEK  CASTLE,  IRELAND 

WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND  . 

From  a  medallion  by  R.  Tait  McKcnzic 

STEPPING-STONES   IN   FRONT  OF  THE  OLD 
DRUMMOND  HOME  IN  IRELAND 


4 
8 
14 

72 


xxii  Illustrations 


FACING 
PAGE 


"  DEN   A   MAN   HE   COME   ALONG  AN'  HE 

SAY    TO    ME,    'LOOK    HERE — 
DON'T    YOU   KNOW    THAT    PLACE    DEY 

CALL  CHIBOUGAMOU?' "  ...        74 
Chibougamou 

"On!   DE  PULLIN'  AN'  DE  HAULIN',  TILL 

I'M  FEELIN'  PURTY  SORE"        .          .       78 
Chibougamou 

"  AN'  SOON  I  WAIT  AN'  LISTEN,  FOR  I  TINK 
I  HEAR  DE  SONG 

OF     DE    FIRSE,    DE    EARLY    ROBIN,   AS     HE 

jus'  BEGIN  TO  SING"        ...       82 
The  First  Robin 

"  SO  OFF  ON  DE  WOOD  WE  ALL  MUS'  Go"       .          92 

The  Calcite  Vein 

"  AFFER  W'ILE  DUCHARME  COMMENCE  TALK 

DE  POLITIQUE  WIT*  ALPHONSE*'  .      138 

The  Montmorenci  Election 


WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND 


WILLIAM    HENRY    DRUMMOND 

A  T  sunrise  on  Holy  Thursday,  i3th  April, 
'**•  1854,  in  Currawn  House,  near  the  village 
of  Mohill,  County  Leitrim,  Ireland,  where  his 
father,  George  Drummond,  was  then  sta- 
tioned, William  Henry  Drummond,  "Poet 
of  the  Habitant,"  was  born.  That  same 
evening  the  baby's  grandmother,  going  into 
the  garden,  found  there  his  father,  study- 
ing intently  the  bright  scroll  of  heaven. 
Turning  to  greet  her  he  said:  "I  have  been 
reading  the  boy's  destiny  in  the  stars ;  he  is 
born  to  great  things" — a  prediction  which 
caused  the  grandmother  to  smile  indulgently, 
but  the  young  mother  treasured  the  saying 
in  her  heart,  and  lived  to  see  its  fulfilment. 
Mr.  Drummond  \vas  at  this  time  an  officer 
in  the  Royal  Irish  Constabulary,  and  two 
years  later,  with  his  family,  was  removed  to 
Tawley,  a  little  village  which  nestles  on  the 

3 


4       William  Henry  Drummond 

side  of  one  of  that  triumvirate  of  mountains 
known  as  the  "Three  Sisters,"  which  stand 
sentinel  over  the  beautiful  Bay  of  Donegal. 
Here  in  Tawley  Manor  House,  the  birthplace 
of  his  three  brothers,  William  Henry  passed 
the  impressionable  days  of  early  boyhood, 
absorbing  the  poetry  and  romance  of  sur- 
roundings redolent  of  both.  Tawley  was  a 
spot  not  famed  for  beauty  alone,  but  steeped 
in  the  glamour  of  heroic  days  and  the  struggle 
of  men  for  their  birthright.  In  the  poem 
"Child  Thoughts,"  written  in  October,  1900, 
to  commemorate  the  birthday  of  his  young- 
est brother  Tom,  he  has  himself  given  us  a 
perfect  picture  of  this  place  and  a  clear 
record  of  its  effect  upon  his  boyish  mind,  an 
effect  which  endured  to  the  end,  and  to  which 
his  last  completed  poem  is  a  touching  tribute. 
It  may  have  been  this  earliest  association 
with  Nature,  in  all  her  most  appealing  aspects, 
among  a  clean,  wholesome-minded  peasantry, 
that  fostered  the  boy's  inherent  love  of 
honest,  upright  simplicity,  and  gave  to  his 
mind  that  perfect  balance  and  sanity  of 


4       William  Henry  Drummond 

• 
side  of  one  of  that  triumvirate  of  mountains 

known  as  the  "Three  Sisters,"  which  stand 
sentinel  over  the  beautiful  Bay  of  Donegal. 
Here  in  Tawley  Manor  the  birthplace 

of  his  three  brothers,  \  Henry  passed 

the  impressionable  d:>  .-arly  boyhood, 

absorbing  the  poetry  and  romance  of  sur- 
roundings redolent  of  Tawley  was  a 
spot  not  famed  for  be;-  >ne,  but  steeped 

in  the  glamour  of  heroi  aid  the  struggle 

"  The  white-walled  huts  that  strew  the  shore 

!  jHfe&  feMpHto  bnmfe" 

'  •  Ofrjfcli  Vbtt9&&*^r9to&r  SW^tober,  1 900, 
to  commemorate  the  birthday  of  his  young- 
est brother  Tom,  he  has  himself  given  us"  a 
perfect  picture  of  this  place  and  a  clear 
record  of  its  effect  upon  his  boyish  mind,  an 
effect  which  endured  to  the  end,  and  to  which 
his  last  completed  poem  is  a  touching  tribute. 
It  may  have  been  this  earliest  association 
with  Nature,  in  all  her  most  appealing  aspects, 
among  a  clean,  wholesome-minded  peasantry, 
that  fostered  the  boy's  inherent  love  of 
honest,  upright  simplicity,  and  gave  to  his 
mind  that  perfect  balance  and  sanity  of 


William  Henry  Drummond       5 

outlook  for  which,  as  a  man,  he  was  ever 
conspicuous. 

At  the  head  of  the  village  school,  of  this 
date,  at  Tawley,  was  one  of  the  old-time 
"hereditary  scholars"  of  Ireland,  a  man 
poor  and  obscure  it  may  be  like  most  of  his 
class,  but  with  intellectual  and  moral  attain- 
ments so  rare  in  quality  as  to  indelibly  im- 
press all  who  came  in  contact  with  him.  To 
learn  of  this  man,  William  Drummond  went 
at  the  age  of  five,  and  proving  an  apt  scholar 
from  the  first,  was  not  infrequently  left  in 
charge  of  the  class-room  during  any  unavoid- 
able absence  of  the  master.  On  one  of  these 
occasions  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Drummond 
happened  to  pay  an  unexpected  visit  to  the 
school,  they  found  their  son  the  centre  of 
an  eager  group  of  scholars,  all  clamouring 
for  help  from  the  lad,  in  many  cases  years 
their  junior.  "My  faith,"  remarked  the 
proud  father,  "the  boy  is  more  like  master 
than  pupil  here!"  It  is  no  wonder,  then, 
that  between  this  learned  old  man  and  his 
bright  pupil  there  grew  up  a  friendship 


6      William  Henry  Drummond 

which  was  to  outlast  not  only  years,  but 
separation  also,  a  fact  amply  proven  by  the 
poet's  wish,  expressed  so  often  in  later 
years,  that  he  might  find  the  grave  of  Paddy 
McNulty — such  was  the  master's  name — 
and  acknowledge  his  gratitude  by  erecting 
thereon  a  suitable  monument. 

It  was  at  Tawley,  too,  that  the  boy  first 
became  a  disciple  of  the  immortal  Isaak, 
and  his  first  fly  was  cast  upon  the  waters 
of  the  River  Duff,  which  flowed  by  the  very 
doors  of  the  old  Manor  House.  Here  one 
day  came  Lord  Palmerston  to  fish,  and, 
finding  the  son  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Drum- 
mond, sitting  patiently  with  worm-baited 
hook  waiting  for  a  bite,  the  great  statesman, 
who  was  also  a  keen  fisherman,  with  a 
hatred  of  anything  but  what  he  considered 
clean  sport,  undertook  to  initiate  the  lad 
into  the  gentle  art  of  fly-fishing,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  imbue  the  youthful  mind  with 
his  own  lofty  ideals.  So  well  did  he  succeed 
that  this  highest  branch  of  the  piscatorial  art 
was  ever  after  William  Drummond's  favourite 


William  Henry  Drummond       7 

recreation,  and  his  scorn  of  the  baited  hook 
a  byword  among  fishermen. 

After  about  seven  years  spent  in  this 
romantic  spot,  Mr  Drummond,  senior,  with 
his  wife  and  family,  returned  to  Mohill  for  a 
while,  before  removing  to  Canada,  where 
they  had  been  only  a  few  short  months,  w^hen 
he  passed  away,  leaving  the  brave  little 
mother  to  face  the  New  World  with  her  four 
boys,  the  eldest  barely  eleven,  and  the  young- 
est only  five.  With  the  slenderest  of  means 
at  her  command,  the  struggle  was  one  that 
might  well  have  crushed  the  bravest  spirit. 
Mrs.  Drummond's  first  consideration  was 
the  education  of  her  boys,  and  she  was  firm  in 
the  determination  that  they  should  always 
be  united  and  self-reliant,  and  that  what- 
ever the  future  might  bring  forth,  they 
should  be  able  at  least  to  say  that  the  little 
family  owed  everything,  under  God,  to  their 
own  efforts.  Her  motto,  like  David  Liv- 
ingstone's, was  ever,  "Fear  God,  and  work 
hard."  Her  simple  faith  carried  her  through 
difficulties  again  and  again,  and  she  lived  to 


8        William  Henry  Drummond 

see  the  fruition  of  her  hopes  for  her  boys, 
passing  away  in  her  eighty-third  year,  happy 
in  the  admiring  love  and  devotion  of  her 
sons  and  their  respective  families. 

Reverting  for  a  moment  to  those  early 
days  of  struggle,  William  Drummond  went 
for  a  few  short  terms  to  a  private  school,  and 
then,  realizing  at  an  earlier  age  than  would 
most  boys  that  his  devoted  mother  sorely 
needed  his  help,  he  insisted  upon  shouldering 
his  share  of  the  burden.  Taking  up  the 
study  of  telegraphy,  he  soon  obtained  an 
appointment,  and  became  one  of  the  most 
expert  telegraphers  of  the  time.  In  the 
initial  days  of  his  work  he  was  located  at 
Bord-a-Plouffe,  a  little  village  lying  on  the 
banks  of  the  beautiful  Riviere  des  Prairies, 
at  the  back  of  Mount  Royal,  and  at  that 
time  a  great  centre  of  the  lumber  trade. 
Here  it  was  that  he  first  came  in  contact  with 
the  habitant  and  voyageur,  and  listened  to 
their  quaint  tales  of  backwoods  life;  here 
that  he  heard  from  the  lips  of  old  Gedeon 
Plouffe  the  tragedy  retold  as  "The  Wreck 


8        William  Henry  Drummond 

see  the  fruition  of  her  hopes  for  her  boys, 
passing  away  in  her  eighty-third  year,  happy 
in  the  admiring  love  and  devotion  of  her 
sons  and  their  respective  families. 

Reverting  for  a  moment  to  those  early 
days  of  struggle,  William  Drummond  went 
for  a  few  short  terms  to  a  private  school,  and 
then,  realizing  at  an  earlier  age  than  would 
most  boys  that  his  devoted  mother  sorely 
needed  his  he$#fel*i6s^#«j^  shouldering 

From  a  drawing  by  Frederick  Sim&toH  fobmr*. 

his  share  of  the  burden.  Taking  up  the 
study  of  telegraphy,  he  soon  obtained  an 
appointment,  and  became  one  of  the  most 
expert  telegraphers  of  the  time.  In  the 
initial  days  of  his  work  he  was  located  at 
Bord-a-Plouffe,  a  littl  "  lying  on  the 

banks  of  the  beautiful  Riviere  des  Prairies, 
at  the  back  of  Mount  Royal,  and  at  that 
time  a  great  centre  of  the  lumber  trade. 
Here  it  was  that  he  first  came  in  contact  with 
the  habitant  and  tr,  and  listened  to 

their  quaint  tales  of  backwoods  life;  here 
that  he  heard  from  the  lips  of  old  G6deon 
Plouffe  the  tragedy  retold  as  "The  Wreck 


William  Henry  Drummond       9 

of  the  Julie  Plante,"  a  poem  of  which  he 
himself  thought  little,  and  never  cared  to 
recite,  but  which  had  made  its  way  through 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  American 
continent  before  ever  his  first  book  of  poems 
was  published.  It  was  the  old  lumberman's 
reiteration  of  the  words,  "An*  de  win'  she 
blow,  blow,  blow!"  which  rang  so  persistently 
in  his  ears  that,  at  the  dead  of  night,  unable 
to  stand  any  longer  the  haunting  refrain, 
he  sprang  from  his  bed  and  penned  the 
poem,  which  was  to  be  the  herald  of  his 
future  fame. 

In  a  letter  dated  May  12, 1903,  and  written 
to  a  dear  friend  of  these  times,  he  says: 

I  often  think  of  the  B.  P.  days  of  1869, 
the  first  time  I  saw  the  old  place,  and  even 
yet  memory  can  summon  up  the  wild  gladia- 
tors of  the  "sawr  log"  and  "square  lumber" 
raft,  and  I  can  hear  them  sing:  "Trois  beaux 
canards"  and  "Par  derriere  chez  ma  tante." 

I  did  love  those  days,  and  I  do  so  yet, 
intensely.  One  of  these  days  I  will  write  a 
story  of  the  Riviere  des  Prairies,  and  dedi- 
cate to  you. 

There  was  a  little  wild  strawberry  plant 


io     William  Henry  Drummond 

that  grew  in  July,  1869,  on  the  right-hand 
side  of  the  road  leading  to  the  river,  and 
whenever  I  had  a  message  to  deliver  to  a 
raft-foreman  I  usually  found  a  fresh  young 
berry  waiting  for  me.  This  happened  on 
several  occasions  during  the  month  I  speak 
of,  and  is  n't  it  strange  that  I  never  forgot 
the  incident?  But  it  is  just  such  sweet  little 
memories  as  this  that  fasten  Bord-a-Plouffe 
deep  down  in  my  heart. 

"  Bord-a-Plouffe  is  on  de  reever, 
Bord-a-Plouffe  is  on  de  shore, 
An'  de  family  of  Plouffe  dere  all  aroun', 
On  some  house  dey  got  twenty, 
On  some  house  only  ten, 
But  w'ere  you  get  such  girl 

And  such  fine  young  men?" 

A  few  years  of  productive  work,  and  then, 
in  brighter  days,  William  Drummond  turned 
again  to  his-  interrupted  studies,  and  we 
find  him  a  pupil  at  the  High  School,  passing 
thence  to  McGill  College,  and  on  to  Bishop's 
Medical  College,  from  which  he  graduated 
in  1884.  His  first  medical  appointment  was 
that  of  House  Surgeon  of  the  Western  Hos- 
pital, a  position  which  he  filled  to  the  sat- 
isfaction of  all  concerned. 


William  Henry  Drummond     n 

Of  the  boy's  school  days  there  is  little 
record  left  us,  save  the  impression  made  by 
his  personality  on  his  fellows,  an  impression 
of  strength  and  integrity,  which  deepened 
with  age  and  further  acquaintance,  but  never 
changed,  and  to-day  we  find  one  of  these 
school  friends  wrriting  thus  of  him: 

At  the  High  School,  I  remember  the  Doc- 
tor as  being  much  bigger  and  stronger  than 
any  other  pupil.  There  was  a  certain  re- 
serve about  him  at  first  acquaintance  which 
gradually  melted  and  enhanced  the  friend- 
ship which  followed  later.  One  felt  that  his 
confidence  was  not  to  be  lightly  gained, 
and  it  was  valued  accordingly.  He  was 
slow  to  anger  and  magnanimous  as  befitted 
his  strength.  Even  as  a  youth  he  had  a 
remarkable  sense  of  justice,  and  would  not 
permit  any  bullying  when  he  was  present. 

Throughout  his  college  career,  "Bill  Drum- 
mond" was  better  known  as  an  athlete  than 
as  a  student.  The  exact  sciences  never 
appealed  to  him,  the  labour  involved  in 
working  out  a  mathematical  problem  being 
all  too  slow  for  a  mentality  as  swift  as  his. 
Conclusions  were  more  often  reached  by  the 


12      William  Henry  Drummond 

rapid  bounds  of  intuition  than  by  any 
analytical  method,  and,  while  to  this  very 
rapidity  of  intellect  he  owed  much  of  his 
success  in  after  life,  both  as  physician  and 
poet,  yet  in  college  examinations  they  were 
of  less  account  than  the  more  homely  gifts 
of  the  steady  plodder.  He  has  therefore 
left  us  no  record  of  scholarships  taken  nor 
gold  medals  won,  save  on  the  University 
campus,  where  his  splendid  physique  and 
immense  strength  gained  for  him  many 
honours.  In  snow-shoeing,  hammer-throw- 
ing, putting  the  shot,  and  fast  walking,  he  had 
few  equals,  and  was  for  a  time  Canadian  ama- 
teur champion  of  the  last-named  exercise. 

In  August,  1883,  in  company  with  another 
medical  student,  William  went  to  visit  Dr. 
George  Nelson,  grandson  of  Wolfred,  of 
Rebellion  fame,  who  was  then  medical 
practitioner  at  Marbleton,  in  the  township 
of  Dudswell.  The  party  took  a  tent  with 
them,  camping  out  on  an  island  in  Silver 
Lake,  a  picturesque  sheet  of  water  situated 
about  two  miles  from  the  village.  Here  also 


William  Henry  Drummond     13 

were  camped  many  other  residents  of  Marble- 
ton,  among  them  being  the  Rector  and  his 
family,  who  took  a  kindly  interest  in  the 
young  strangers  and  made  them  welcome 
to  their  hospitable  circle.  The  Rev.  Thos. 
Shaw  Chapman,  who  is  still  living,  is  one  of 
that  old-time  band  of  pioneers  who  did  not 
go  forth  into  the  wilderness  only  to  get  from 
it  all  they  could  of  material  benefit,  but  also 
to  give  unsparingly  of  their  time  and  strength 
to  the  betterment  of  things  material  as  well 
as  spiritual.  This  grand  old  man,  on  his 
first  coming  to  Marbleton,  built,  literally 
with  his  own  hands,  churches  and  houses, 
surveyed  railroads,  and  there  being  at  this 
time  no  doctor  in  the  vicinity,  even  cared  for 
the  sick  among  his  parishioners.  ' '  From  early 
morn  till  dewy  eve,"  his  spare  form  might 
be  seen  toiling  up  the  steep  hillside  on  which 
the  village  stands.  It  might  be  to  the  bed 
of  death,  or  to  a  social  at  the  home  of  a  friend. 
In  both  cases  his  welcome  was  sure,  for  his 
sympathy  was  unlimited  and  his  counsel 
wise.  Between  men  with  so  much  in  common 


14     William  Henry  Drummond 

a  friendship  was  soon  established,  which 
the  Doctor  carried  to  his  grave,  and  the 
"Pastor  of  the  Uplands"  still  holds  as  a 
sacred  treasure  in  the  hidden  recesses  of 
his  heart.  These  were  happy  days  for 
William,  and  in  March,  1900,  we  find  him 
writing  thus  to  Mr.  Chapman: 

God  bless  you  for  a  man  who  is  always 
thinking  of  his  friends!  Time  goes  on,  and 
naturally  many  things  and  incidents  slip 
from  our  memory,  but  never  shall  I  forget  the 
few  days  we  spent  together  in  camp  at  Silver 
Lake.  I  feel  now  that  your  quiet,  calm, 
philosophical  nature  and  loving  tempera- 
ment influenced  me  more  than  I  was 
conscious  of  at  the  time.  If  we  can  ever 
manage  to  come  together  again,  I  trust 
it  will  be  under  the  same  conditions  and 
circumstances. 

Here  is  another  letter  bearing  date  of  Feb- 
ruary 3,  1896,  which  is  too  full  of  interesting 
details  and  too  typical  of  the  writer  to  be 
omitted : 

MY  DEAR  MR.  CHAPMAN: 

It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  know  that 
you  and  yours  are  well,  and  the  knowledge, 
too,  that  camping  and  various  other  schemes 


Henry  Drurnmond 

!>.ip    was    soon    established,    which 

tor  carried  to  his  grave,   and  the 

>r  of  the   Uplands"   still  holds  as  a 

•  1   treasure   in   the   hidden   recesses   of 

ms    heart.      These    were    happy    days    for 

am,  and  in  March,  1900, "we  find  him 

writing  thus  to  Mr.  Chapman: 

God  bless  you  for  a  man  who  is  always 
thinking  of  his  friends!  Time  goes  on,  and 
naturallv  many  things  and  incidents  slip 
from  ou/nfcfrf. eKWffiWffM\l  I  forget  the 

Front  a  medallion  by  K.   Tatt  MfKenzte.  0-1 

few  days  we  spent  together  in  camp  at  oilver 
Lake.  I  feel  now  that  your  quiet,  calm, 
philosophical  nature  and  loving  tempera- 
ment influenced  me  more  than  I  was 
conscious  of  at  the  time.  If  we  can  ever 
manage  to  come  1  .rain,  I  trust 

it  will  be  under  the  nditions  and 

circumstances . 

Here  is  another  leu  'late  of  Feb- 

~iary  3,  1896,  which  is  t<»'>  '-.ill  of  interesting 
s  and  too  typu  vriter  to  be 

d: 

MY  F.>BAR  MR.  CHAPMAN: 

s  me  great  pleasure  to  know  that 

$  yours  are  well,  and  the  knowledge, 

lt*>,  ng  and  various  other  schemes 


William  Henry  Drummond      15 

are  still  engaging  your  active  attention 
affords  me  delight.  Dear  me,  how  Father 
Time  will  persist  in  running  along  at  the 
same  old  gait!  It  has  often  been  a  matter 
of  surprise  to  me  that  the  "Pastor  of  the 
Uplands"  has  not  written  something  of  his 
life  among  the  township's  hills;  you  who 
have  seen  so  much  of  Nature  ought  to  give 
us  a  volume  equal  to  anything  John  Bur- 
roughs ever  wrote.  I  am  engaged  in  col- 
lecting together  the  verse  that  I  have  from 
time  to  time  been  guilty  of  penning,  dialect 
and  otherwise,  and  the  book  ought  to  be 
published  for  Christmas  of  this  year. 

By-the-by,  do  you  remember  a  little 
piece  on  "Silver  Lake  Camp"?  I  don't 
think  there  was  much  in  it,  but  if  you  have 
a  copy  I  wish  you  would  send  it  to  me.  I 
enclose  a  ballad  of  "Ye  Ancient  Regime,"  a 
tale  told  by  an  Old-Country  Frenchwoman 
to  her  Canadian-born  granddaughter.  In 
the  early  days  of  our  country,  as  you  know, 
the  Seigneurs  were,  as  a  rule,  men  who  had 
earned  their  possessions  by  the  sword  on 
Continental  battle-fields,  and-  these  were  the 
days  when  a  gentleman  was  a  gentleman  in 
something  more  than  name.  The  ballad 
has  been  set  to  music,  and  Madame  Albani 
will  include  it  in  her  repertoire. 

When  the  weather  became  too  cold  for 
camping  under  canvas,  the  two  students 


16      William  Henry  Drummond 

moved  on  to  Clear  Lake,  a  spot  situated  high 
up  among  the  hills,  about  five  miles  from 
Marbleton.  Here  by  the  shores  of  the  lake 
dwelt  Major  John  Weyland,  with  his  brother 
Charles,  and  a  sister.  The  two  young  men 
established  themselves  in  a  little  shanty 
owned  by  the  Major,  which  stood  in  the 
midst  of  a  group  of  dark  fir-trees,  not  many 
yards  distant  from  the  home  of  the  brothers. 
In  this  lonely  and  romantic  spot  they  spent 
many  pleasant  days,  fishing  and  strolling 
about  the  country,  and  when  twilight  fell, 
sitting  with  the  soldier  brothers  on  a  fallen 
fir-tree  discoursing  on  many  things.  Major 
Weyland  was  a  brilliant  conversationalist, 
and  it  is  said  that  the  sallies  of  wit  be- 
tween the  middle-aged  soldier  and  the 
young  medical  student  were  sparkling  and 
memorable. 

With  William  Drummond  a  friend  once 
was  always  a  friend,  and  Charles,  the  only 
surviving  one  of  the  trio,  received  the  fol- 
lowing letter  from  the  poet  on  his  last 
Christmas  on  earth. 


William  Henry  Drummond      17 

December  i4th,  1906. 
MY  DEAR  MR.  WEYLAND: 

I  often  think  of  my  old  friend  in  your 
home  by  the  lake,  where  we  all  had  such 
happy  days  many  years  ago;  Aunt  Fanny, 
your  brother,  the  bluff  old  soldier,  always 
ready  with  his  merry  joke,  yourself — preux 
chevalier.  Ah  dear  me,  it  is  hard  to  see 
through  the  mist,  yet  the  inner  vision  is  keen, 
and  coming  towards  the  holy  season  of 
Christmas,  once  more  there  you  are  in  my 
mind  again,  the  whole  of  you,  and  I  wish 
you  all  the  very  happiest  of  the  season's 
greetings. 

In  the  fall  of  1907,  while  on  a  flying  visit 
to  Marbleton,  I  was  privileged  to  visit 
Clear  Lake  also,  being  driven  thither  by  my 
venerable  host,  Mr.  Chapman,  on  a  wrild 
October  morning,  when  little  remained  of 
the  beauty  of  the  lake  save  its  limpid  waters 
and  those  same  dark  fir-trees,  under  which 
lay  the  ruins  of  the  little  shanty-camp  of 
years  gone  by.  The  "preux  chevalier"  met 
us,  and  with  courtly  Old-World  grace, 
strangely  unexpected  in  this  lonely  spot, 
escorted  us  into  the  house.  Here  by  the  side 
of  the  stove  I  sat  and  warmed  my  numb 


1 8      William  Henry  Drummond 

fingers,  while  the  two  old  men  talked  of 
bygone  days,  when  handsome  Charlie  Wey- 
land  wooed  and  won  Isabelle,  his  wife,  in 
the  face  of  many  difficulties — of  a  letter- 
box hidden  in  the  hedge ;  of  stolen  meetings, 
and  the  final  elopement  of  the  pair,  who 
crossed  the  bridge  at  Niagara  in  disguise, 
passing,  en  route  and  unrecognized,  the 
relentless  father;  and  of  the  hurried  mar- 
riage over  the  border,  and  the  building  of 
this  lonely  home  in  the  wilderness,  where 
neither  poverty  nor  privation  had  had 
power  to  tarnish  the  pure  gold  of  their  love. 

It  was  a  picture  not  to  be  forgotten,  these 
two  old  men  glowing  and  thrilling  over 
those  days  of  long  ago,  days  past  but  not 
dead  since  they  still  had  power  to  bring 
to  faded  cheeks  the  blush  of  youth  and  the 
shimmer  of  the  love -light  to  eyes  already 
dim  with  age. 

At  last  it  was  time  to  go,  and  in  reply  to 
my  request  for  reminiscences  of  his  student 
friend,  Mr.  Weyland  answered  that,  while 
there  must  be  many  such  stored  away  in  his 


William  Henry  Drummond      19 

mind,  just  now  he  could  remember  only 
one  thing, — that  is,  said  he,  "that  your  hus- 
band was  the  finest  man  I  ever  knew!" 

"Come  into  the  other  room,"  he  con- 
tinued, "and  I  will  show  you  the  photograph 
he  sent  me  after  his  stay  out  here."  There 
it  stood  in  the  place  of  honour  on  the  little 
book-shelf,  and  beside  it  the  picture  of  our 
"little  Billy,"  the  baby  boy  whose  death 
almost  broke  the  father's  tender  heart. 
"He  wrote  to  me  when  the  little  lad  died," 
said  Mr.  Weyland,  "and  I  can  never  read 
that  letter  without  the  tears  coming  to  my 
eyes."  The  thought  came  to  me  then  that 
perhaps  it  was  this  faculty  of  taking  his 
friends  into  the  sacred  places  of  his  sorrow, 
this  judging  of  their  sympathy  by  his  own 
overflowing  measure,  which  had  endeared 
him  to  so  many,  and  which,  since  his  death, 
had  drawn  from  many  a  manly  heart  the 
touching  tribute,  "I  lost  my  best  friend 
when  the  Doctor  died." 

In  the  fall  of  1883  William  wrote  to  Mr. 
Chapman  relative  to  the  possibility  of 


20    William  Henry  Drummond 

establishing  a  practice  in  Marbleton,  a 
place  which  he  thought  suitable  because, 
as  he  said :  ' '  My  three  brothers  will  probably 
always  make  Montreal  their  home,  and  my 
mother  is  anxious  that  we  should  all  be  as 
close  together  in  life  as  possible;  so  you  see 
the  choice  would  please  everyone  concerned." 
But  it  was  not  to  be,  and  he  arrived  in 
Marbleton  to  find  the  vacancy  filled.  Much 
disappointed,  he  would  have  returned  to 
Montreal  defeated,  had  not  his  kind  old 
friend  offered  to  drive  him  over  to  Storno- 
way,  a  little  village  near  Lake  Megantic, 
which  suggested  possibilities  of  an  opening 
such  as  he  sought.  On  the  way  they  met 
someone  driving  in  haste  to  procure  in 
Marbleton  medical  aid  for  a  little  girl  who 
lay  desperately  ill  with  scarlet  fever  in 
Stornoway.  He  stopped  to  greet  the  passers 
by  and  tell  of  his  errand.  "Why,  here  is 
your  man!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Chapman, pointing 
to  his  companion.  The  case  was  a  desperate 
one,  but  the  young  Doctor  "won  out,"  and 
established  not  only  a  practice  in  the  little 


William  Henry  Drummond      21 

village,  but  himself  in  the  hearts  of  the 
people,  though  to  obtain  this  latter  place 
be  was  obliged  to  thrash  into  proper  respect 
for  a  college  education  one  "Red  John,"  the 
bully  of  the  place,  a  brawny  Scot,  of  gigantic 
proportions,  and  hair  and  temper  alike  fiery. 
At  Stornoway  he  remained  two  years, 
moving  at  the  end  of  that  time  to  Knowlton, 
where  he  bought  the  practice  of  the  retiring 
physician. 

From  a  letter  that  came  to  me  from  one 
of  his  warmest  Knowlton  friends,  I  subjoin 
a  passage.  Unfortunately  this  friend  was 
unable  to  obtain  a  copy  of  the  verse  to 
which  he  alludes. 

Among  the  mountains  and  valleys,  the 
lakes  and  forests  of  Brome,  his  ardent  love 
of  nature  had  full  scope,  and  when  his 
duties  to  his  patients  permitted  leisure,  he 
was  always  to  be  found  revelling  in  the 
natural  beauties  of  the  place.  He  is  fondly 
remembered  in  this  community,  where  every- 
one hailed  him  as  friend  and  the  children 
as  companion  as  well — loved  alike  for  his 
devotion  to  the  sick  and  distressed,  his 
cheery  disposition,  and  his  splendid  nature. 


22      William  Henry  Drummond 

I  shall  never  forget  the  real  sorrow  of  our 
people  when  he  announced  his  intention  of 
returning  to  Montreal.  The  leave-taking 
of  his  friends  was  almost  pathetic,  and  while 
his  patients  bade  him  farewell  with  genuine 
sorrow,  yet  no  one  could  make  a  parting 
more  pleasant  than  he,  leaving  lingering 
memories  of  happy  intercourse  and  inspiring 
hope  and  cheerfulness. 

One  of  the  last  patients  from  whom  he 
parted  here  was  a  young  girl  upon  whom 
consumption  had  fastened  its  fatal  fetters. 
"Have  you  an  album?"  Dr.  Drummond 
asked  her,  and  it  was  brought.  He  wrote 
therein  one  of  the  most  beautiful  verses  I 
have  ever  read,  leaving  his  patient  a  treas- 
ure of  delight  while  life  lasted.  Such  wras 
the  man  and  the  physician  we  knew  and 
loved. 

These  four  years  of  country  practice  gave 
William  Drummond  the  reality  from  which 
to  draw  his  pictures  of  "The  Canadian 
Country  Doctor"  and  "Ole  Doctor  Fiset," 
pictures  painted  with  the  pigment  of  his  own 
experience,  and  all  unconsciously  to  the 
author,  making  a  very  faithful  portrait  of 
himself.  However,  while  fully  alive  to  the 
benefits  which  might  accrue  from  ' '  de  prayer 


William  Henry  Drummond      23 

of  poor  man"  and  the  usefulness  of  even 
"wan  bag  of  oat"  to  a  hard-driven  horse, 
the  Doctor,  after  four  years  of  absence,  felt 
the  longing  for  home  tugging  at  his  heart- 
strings in  a  way  not  to  be  resisted,  and  in  the 
fall  of  1888  he  returned  to  Montreal,  and 
started  practice  at  the  family  residence  on 
St.  Antoine  Street. 

He  had  been  resident  in  Montreal  about 
four  years  when  I  first  met  him,  and  in  the 
manner  of  this  meeting  there  was  much  of 
romance,  and,  it  would  seem,  the  finger  of 
Fate  also.  My  father  and  I  had  left  our 
West  Indian  home  for  a  trip  to  Canada, 
armed  \vith  a  letter  of  introduction  to  a 
college  chum  of  my  brother's  who  resided 
in  Montreal.  This  young  doctor  had  prom- 
ised to  procure  for  my  father,  through  the 
good  offices  of  a  confrere  having  interests  in 
various  sporting  clubs,  all  the  fishing  he 
wanted,  and,  on  our  arrival  in  Montreal 
towards  the  end  of  July,  would  have  per- 
suaded us  to  go  at  once  to  the  Laurentian 
Club,  \vhere  his  friend  was  then  staying. 


24     William  Henry  Drummond 

But  we  had  other  plans,  and  it  was  not  until 
the  end  of  August  that  we  arrived  at  the 
Club,  to  find  that,  through  some  mistake, 
no  letter  of  introduction  had  preceded  us. 
The  situation  was  awkward,  but  the  genial 
manager  and  host,  after  some  rather  embar- 
rassing questions  regarding  the  health  of  his 
friend  and  our  sporting  sponsor,  Dr.  Drum- 
mond, whom  as  yet  we  had  not  seen,  made 
us  welcome.  At  the  end  of  two  weeks,  feeling 
we  had  trespassed  long  enough  on  the  hos- 
pitality of  the  Club,  we  announced  our 
intention  of  leaving,  a  determination  from 
which  we  were  easily  turned  by  the  invita- 
tion of  our  host  to  remain  yet  a  while  longer. 
"Only  till  Monday,  then,"  said  my  father, 
but  in  a  journal  which  I  kept  during  this 
trip,  under  the  date  of  "Sunday,  Sept.  i8th," 
there  is  this  entry:  "Introduced  to  our  un- 
known friend,  Dr.  Drummond."  Here  was 
another  and  very  tangible  object  in  the  way 
of  our  departure,  and  it  being  impossible 
to  refuse  the  earnest  request  of  this  man  to 
whom  we  owed  so  much,  we  stayed  yet 


William  Henry  Drummond      25 

another  day,  the  afternoon  of  which  I  spent 
fishing  under  the  guidance  of  the  no  longer 
"unknown"  friend.  The  far-reaching  events 
of  that  day  were  thus  tersely  though  all 
unconsciously  summed  up  in  my  little  diary  : 
'Went  to  Trout  Lake  fishing — caught  my 
first  'big  fish.'  That,  in  so  doing,  I  had 
myself  fallen  into  deep  waters  is  not  recorded, 
but  then  what  true  fisherman,  or  fisher- 
woman  for  that  matter,  ever  makes  men- 
tion of  the  price  paid  for  his  or  her  'big 
fish'?" 

Another  day  of  sunny  memories  we  spent 
together  in  visiting  the  Shawinigan  Falls, 
driving  from  his  brother  John  Drummond' s 
home  at  Radnor  Forges  to  the  Falls  and 
back.  ' '  Dat  's  geev  good  chances  get  ac- 
quaint," but  of  the  many  topics  of  conver- 
sation which  occupied  us  throughout  the 
long  drive  I  can  recollect  only  one.  We  had 
driven  along  for  some  time  in  silence,  when 
my  companion  asked  abruptly,  "What  's 
your  hobby?"  "I  have  n't  one,"  I  replied. 
"Why,  you  must  have,"  he  returned ;  "every 


26      William  Henry  Drummond 

healthy-minded  person  has  a  hobby.  Mine  is 
dogs!"  "Dogs!"  I  echoed  incredulously, 
having  expected  that  he  would  name  some 
literary  pursuit  of  great  magnitude.  "What 
kind  of  dogs?"  "  Irish  terriers,  of  course," 
he  answered,  almost  indignantly,  as  though 
the  enquiry  was  an  insult,  "and  when  I 
want  some  fellow  to  do  something  for  me, 
I  promise  him  a  pup.  It 's  a  mean  man 
that  wouldn't  promise  a  pup!" 

Then  he  offered  to  show  me  his  dogs  on 
our  arrival  in  Montreal,  where  we  had  ex- 
pected to  remain  for  a  few  days,  but  the 
news  of  the  death  of  my  father's  only  brother 
hurried  us  back  to  the  West  Indies  without 
further  delay,  and  my  acquaintance  with  his 
"hobby"  was  not  made  until  nearly  a 
year  later.  In  the  spring  of  1893,  the  Doctor 
made  a  flying  trip  to  Jamaica,  during  which 
we  became  engaged,  and  the  next  year, 
accompanied  by  his  brother  George  and  wife 
and  the  "Commodore"  (our  host  of  the  Lau- 
rentian  Club),  he  returned,  as  he  said,  "like 
the  pirates  of  old,"  to  carry  off  his  bride. 


William  Henry  Drummond      27 

On  the  i8th  of  April,  1894,  we  were  married 
in  the  humble  little  church  at  Savanna  la  Mar, 
which  had  also  seen  my  baptism,  and  which 
has  since  been  demolished  to  make  room 
for  a  much  finer  edifice. 

On  our  way  home  after  the  ceremony,  I 
remember  how  amused  and  pleased  he  was 
when  a  buxom  negro  girl  from  among  the 
long  line  of  darkies  who  stood  to  see  the 
procession,  threw  into  our  carriage  a  bunch 
of  flowers,  accompanied  by  a  string  of  com- 
pliments and  good  wishes.  "These  people 
have  warm  hearts,  haven't  they?"  he  said, 
and  to  him  this  was  the  first  requisition 
of  excellence. 

Our  first  home  together  in  Montreal  was 
an  old-fashioned  house  on  Mountain  Street, 
where  two  of  our  children  were  born.  The 
first  boy  lived  only  a  few  hours,  owing  to 
the  fact  that  at  the  time  of  his  birth  I  was 
myself,  from  a  complication  of  causes,  hover- 
ing near  to  the  borderland.  It  was  during 
my  convalescence  from  this  illness  that  "Le 
Vieux  Temps"  was  written,  and  its  first 


28      William  Henry  Drummond 

public  reading  was  at  a  dinner  of  the  Shake- 
speare Club  of  Montreal,  of  which  the  Doctor 
had  once  been  a  member.  On  this  occasion, 
being  asked  to  reply  to  one  of  the  toasts,  he 
would  have  refused  the  invitation,  declaring 
that  speech-making  was  not  in  his  line;  but 
finally  a  compromise  was  effected  by  his 
diffident  suggestion  that  perhaps  he  might 
read  the  new  poem  instead  of  making  a 
speech.  When  the  night  of  the  dinner 
arrived  he  was  with  difficulty  prevented 
from  running  off  somewhere  on  the  plea  of 
professional  duty.  However,  he  went,  and 
was  bewildered  by  his  own  success.  "It  's 
the  strangest  thing  in  the  world,"  he  said, 
"but  do  you  know  they  simply  went  wild 
over  that  poem ! " 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  long  series  of 
triumphs  of  a  like  nature,  triumphs  which 
owed  little  to  elocutionary  art,  much  to  the 
natural  gift  of  a  voice  rare  alike  in  strength, 
quality,  and  variety  of  tone,  but  most  of  all 
to  the  fact  that  the  characters  he  delineated 
were  not  mere  creations  of  a  vivid  imagina- 


William  Henry  Drummond      29 

tion.  They  were  portraits,  tenderly  drawn 
by  the  master  hand  of  a  true  artist,  and  one 
who  knew  and  loved  the  originals. 

Apropos  of  William  Drummond,  a  con- 
temporary Canadian  writer  says: 

It  requires  but  little  talent  to  set  the 
foibles  of  a  people  to  metre,  but  it  calls  for 
genius  in  touch  with  the  lowly  and  divine 
to  gather  up  the  spiritual  facts  in  a  people's 
lives  and  give  these  facts  such  artistic  setting 
that  the  poems  will  live  forever. 

Another  Canadian  litterateur,  after  hav- 
ing heard  him  for  the  first  time  recite  his  own 
poems,  wrote  thus: 

You  must  have  genius  or  you  couldn't 
transport  people  and  make  them  see  ard 
hear  and  feel  what  you  will.  The  old,  eld 
title  given  to  Spenser,  or  some  other  early 
writer,  is  yours  by  right,  and  no  greater, 
sweeter  title  need  the  soul  of  man  desire: 
"Poete  by  the  Grace  of  God." 

Here  in  the  old  house  on  Mountain  Street, 
which  had  been  the  home  of  Jefferson  Davis 
during  the  closing  years  of  the  war,  most 
of  the  pieces  which  comprise  The  Habitant 
were  written.  Many  a  morning  his  mother 


30      William  Henry  Drummond 

and  I  waited  to  begin  breakfast  until  he  had 
written  out  the  first  copy  of  something  com- 
posed overnight,  and  then,  when  the  brothers 
George  and  Tom  came  in  to  pay  their  daily 
visit  to  the  beloved  mother,  a  custom  which 
almost  seemed  like  a  consecration  of  the  day, 
and  was  continued  to  the  end  of  her  life,  the 
poem  would* be  read  aloud  and  criticised  with 
a  freedom  possible  only  in  a  Celtic  family. 

When  there  was  almost  enough  material 
to  form  a  volume,  a  compact  was  made 
between  Tom  and  myself  to  see  it  published, 
and  it  is  with  the  tender  recollection  of  a 
pleasure  forever  past  that  I  look  back  upon 
the  awful  haste  with  which,  one  Sunday 
afternoon,  I  glued  the  type -written  sheets, 
with  photographs  of  Mr.  Coburn's  immortal 
pictures  in  between  them,  into  a  book,  and 
handed  the  sticky  compound  to  poor  Tom, 
as  he  called  at  our  door  on  his  way  to  the 
train  for  New  York.  I  well  remember,  too, 
his  humorous  description  afterwards  of  how 
he  had  to  sit  up  all  night  to  keep  the  precious 
book  from  becoming  one  solid  mass! 


William  Henry  Drummond      31 

Advice  was  sought  as  to  a  likely  pub- 
lisher, and,  after  offering  the  manuscript 
to  two  or  three  firms  without  success,  we 
took  it  to  the  Putnams.  This  firm  recognized 
the  true  value  of  the  poems  and  their  illus- 
trations, and  accepted  them.  The  first  edi- 
tion of  The  Habitant  proved  inadequate 
to  the  demand  in  Canada  alone,  and  the 
great  vogue  of  the  poems  was  a  delightful 
surprise  to  Dr.  Drummond. 

The  late  Dr. Louis  Frechette, Poet-Laureate 
of  Canada,  whose  death  a  few  weeks  ago 
came  as  a  shock  to  his  numerous  friends 
and  admirers,  did  much  to  encourage  this 
new  "pathfinder  in  the  land  of  song,"  and 
the  exquisite  preface  from  his  pen  which 
The  Habitant  contains  was  a  strong  con- 
tradiction of  the  erroneous  idea  enter- 
tained by  a  few  of  the  French-Canadian 
people  of  Quebec,  namely,  that  these  verses 
were  written  in  a  spirit  of  mockery.  Such 
was  by  no  means  the  case,  and  I  have  been 
told  many  times  of  good  plots  or  ideas 
offered  to  Dr.  Drummond,  and  rejected  be- 


32      William  Henry  Drummond 

cause  they  contained  a  suggestion  of  ridicule. 
"I  would  rather  cut  off  my  right  arm  than 
speak  disparagingly  of  the  French-Canadian 
people,"  he  remarked  to  a  confrere.  And 
of  Dr.  Drummond's  attitude  this  same 
confrere  writes : 

Drummond's  point  of  view  was  rather 
sympathetic  than  critical,  preferring  always 
to  discover  goodness,  even  though  it  were 
flavoured  at  times  by  human  weakness.  You 
will  therefore  look  in  vain  in  the  three  vol- 
umes of  verse  from  his  pen  for  a  false  note. 
He  is  ever  true  to  the  life  and  character  of 
the  French-Canadian  habitant  in  his  every 
relation,  civic,  social,  and  religious. 

Before  this  first  book  had  left  the  hands 
of  the  printer,  a  second  son  had  been  born 
to  us,  a  sturdy  little  fellow,  who  now,  in  his 
twelfth  year,  gives  promise  of  physical 
development  along  the  same  generous  lines 
as  his  father,  and  we  had  gone  to  live  in 
another  house.  Our  residence  this  time  was 
on  busy  St.  Catherine  Street,  where  we 
spent  six  happy  years.  January,  1901, 
marked  the  advent  of  another  little  boy, 


William  Henry  Drummond      33 

William  Harvey,  and  in  the  same  year 
Johnnie  Courteau,  a  second  volume  of  poems, 
was  published.  The  book  is  still  a  liv- 
ing monument  to  the  genius  of  its  dead 
author,  but  the  little  boy  stayed  with  us 
only  three  short  years,  and  in  September, 
1904,  passed  to  the  other  side,  there  to 
await  the  coming  of  his  beloved  father. 
The  death  of  this  child  threw  a  lasting 
shadow  over  the  poet's  bright  spirit,  and 
on  the  Christmas  Day  following  the  sad 
event,  when,  according  to  custom,  the 
entire  family  dined  at  the  house  of  one  of 
the  brothers,  it  was  noticeable  that  William, 
usually  the  life  of  the  party,  sat  through 
the  meal  in  almost  absolute  silence.  Shortly 
after  our  return  home  that  evening,  he 
brought  to  me  the  finished  copy  of  "The 
Last  Portage,"  and  I  learned  for  the  first  time 
of  the  dream  or  vision  which  it  portrays, 
and  which,  the  night  before,  had  been  an 
actual  experience.  In  the  baby  girl  who  had 
come  to  us  just  six  weeks  before  the  death 
of  her  brother,  William  found  his  greatest 


34      William  Henry  Drummond 

comfort,  though  his  darkest  hours  often 
brought  an  added  pang  in  the  fear,  so  often 
expressed  to  me,  that  he  might  not  live  to 
see  her  grown  up. 

For  several  years  he  occupied  the  Chair 
of  Medical  Jurisprudence  in  his  Alma  Mater, 
in  which  position  he  earned  and  kept  the 
respectful  regards  of  students  and  professors 
alike. 

"He  was  a  clever  physician,  who  detested 
sham  and  all  forms  of  hypocrisy,  yet,  when 
a  serious  case  came  under  observation — and 
he  had  many  of  them — he  gave  the  best  that 
was  in  him,  and  that  was  much." 

Many  of  his  patients  declared  that  just 
to  see  Dr.  Drummond  did  them  good,  and 
grumbled  at  the  scarcity  of  his  visits,  but 
he,  never  dreaming  that  he  had  anything 
other  than  a  prescription  to  bestow,  said: 
"What's  the  use  of  paying  professional 
visits  to  people  for  whom  I  can  do  nothing 
more?  I  might  just  as  well  steal  the  money 
out  of  their  pockets."  On  the  other  hand, 
if  the  case  was  a  serious  one,  it  absorbed 


William  Henry  Drummond      35 

him,  and  his  attention  to  it  was  unremitting. 
At  such  times  he  was  with  difficulty  per- 
suaded to  take  proper  rest  or  food,  and 
would  often  leave  the  dinner-table  to  search 
his  book-shelves  for  yet  another  authority 
on  the  disease  he  was  fighting;  then  he 
would  return  with  the  book  to  the  table,  and, 
if  it  contained  what  he  sought,  his  plate  would 
be  pushed  aside,  and,  in  spite  of  remonstrances 
from  the  rest  of  us,  he  was  off  and  away  to 
his  "case"  once  more.  If  all  went  well  he 
would  return  about  midnight,  and  I  wrould 
smile  to  hear  him  say,  "Gee,  I'm  hungry!" 
No  need  to  ask  if  the  patient  was  better, 
for  here  was  evidence  enough.  He  was  cer- 
tainly no  respecter  of  persons,  the  rich  and 
the  poor  sharing  alike  his  consideration.  It 
is  related  of  him  that  on  one  occasion,  when 
two  calls  came  simultaneously,  one  to  a 
wealthy  man  of  good  standing,  the  other 
to  a  poor  carter,  from  whom  a  fee  might 
scarcely  be  expected,  he  chose  to  attend  the 
latter:  saying:  "The  rich  can  get  any  num- 
ber of  doctors,  but  poor  Pat  has  only  me." 


36      William  Henry  Drummond 

But  this  is  only  one  instance  of  many  that 
make  the  memory  of  him  dear  to  the  poor. 

With  children  he  was  particularly  success- 
ful, and  one  little  sick  boy  probably  voiced 
the  reason  when  he  said:  "Doctor  Drum- 
mond is  just  like  a  big  Newfoundland  dog  ; 
one  feels  so  safe  when  he  is  near." 

In  the  summer  of  1902,  he  made  a  brief 
trip  to  England  and  Scotland,  with  the 
intention  also  of  revisiting  the  scenes  of  his 
childhood  in  Ireland,  but  this  idea  was 
never  carried  out.  The  reason  for  this 
failure  is  given  by  Dr.  Drummond's  friend, 
Neil  Munro: 

He  got  as  far  as  Dublin,  and  here  some- 
thing came  to  him,  an  apprehension,  I 
fancy,  of  the  fact  that  the  actual  Ireland 
was  not  the  Ireland  of  his  warm  imagination, 
that  the  "first,  fine,  careless  rapture"  of 
his  childhood  in  Leitrim  could  never  be 
recaptured — the  saddest  of  discoveries  for 
middle  age.  He  came  back  to  Glasgow, 
and  went  home  to  Canada  without  accom- 
plishing the  purpose  that  had  brought  him 
three  thousand  miles. 

That    same   year — 1902 — William    Drum- 


William  Henry  Drummond     37 

mond  received  from  the  University  of 
Toronto  the  degree  of  LL.D.  "Very  nice  of 
them,  and  I  am  quite  proud  of  the  honour," 
he  wrote,  and  it  is  true  that  nothing  touched 
him  more  deeply  than  the  appreciation  of 
his  own  countrymen. 

Subsequent  to  this,  he  had  been  elected 
Fellow  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature 
of  England,  and  later  on  of  the  Royal 
Society  of  Canada  also,  which,  with  the  degree 
of  D.C.L.  from  Bishop's  College,  Lennox- 
ville,  made  up  the  sum  of  his  literary  honours. 
His  literary  taste  was  always  for  simplicity 
and  directness;  the  modern  psychological 
novel  reading,  he  declared,  like  the  annals 
of  an  insane  asylum. 

Of  history,  both  Irish  and  Canadian,  he 
was  an  ardent  student,  following  the  growth 
of  his  adopted  country  with  the  keenest 
interest.  But,  though  more  than  once 
flattering  offers  were  made  him  he  could 
not  be  tempted  into  the  realm  of  active 
politics,  a  career  for  which  he  felt  himself 
unfitted,  and  his  vote  was  always  cast  for 


38      William  Henry  Drummond 

the  cause  without  question  of  party.  He  had 
a  fine  appreciation  of  the  literary  gifts  of 
others,  and  was  fond  of  reading  aloud  from 
the  works  of  some  favourite  author.  The 
novels  of  Neil  Munro,  with  the  poems  of  Moira 
O'Neill  and  Henry  Newbolt,  were  most  fre- 
quently his  choice,  and  to  the  listeners 
these  readings  were  a  pleasure  not  easily 
forgotten.  The  "Songs  of  the  Glens  of 
Antrim"  he  knew  by  heart,  as  also  many  of 
Newbolt's,  notably  "Vitai  Lampada,"  from 
which  he  took  the  motto  of  his  later  life— 
"Play  up,  play  up,  and  play  the  game!" 
There  are  few  of  us  to-day  but  can  remem- 
ber a  time  when,  in  the  midst  of  our  de- 
spondency, that  strong  right  hand  of  his 
came  down  on  our  shoulder,  and  the  deep 
rich  voice  rang  out  those  stirring  words,  and 
even  in  his  letters  we  find  the  same  refrain: 

God  bless  me,  how  the  years  go  by!  "A 
few  more  years  shall  pass"  with  the  best  of 
us.  But  we  must  stand  up  in  the  ranks 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  "play  the  game," 
yes,  "play  the  game,"  until  the  dark  comes 
on  when  no  man  can  play. 


William  Henry  Drummond    39 

So,  when  that  great  darkness  which 
heralds  the  dawn  had  come  upon  him,  lov- 
ingly we  inscribed  upon  his  casket  those 
brave  words,  thinking  he  would  have  liked 
to  have  it  so. 

As  in  literature  so  with  music,  his  choice 
lay  not  with  the  magnificence  of  Wagnerian 
opera,  but  rather  in  those  "heart -deep  songs 
of  a  people,"  to  be  found  in  the  folk-music 
of  all  countries. 

The  national  airs  of  Ireland,  Scotland, 
and  French  Canada,  well  rendered,  moved 
him  to  an  intensity  of  feeling,  and  some 
among  us  can  recall  the  delight  with  which  he 
listened  to  the  beautiful  expression  of  such 
songs  from  the  lips  of  his  friend  and  favourite 
singer,  Amy  Murray.  And  his  ear  was  per- 
fect, a  false  note  causing  him  absolute  pain,  ,., 
which,  truth  to  tell,  he  took  no  care  to  con- 
ceal, no  matter  by  whom  the  mistake  had 
been  made. 

The  fall  of  1905  saw  the  publication  of  his 
last  completed  work,  The  Voyageur.  This 
book  met  with  the  same  warm  reception 


40     William  Henry  Drummond 

accorded  its  predecessors,  and  the  three 
volumes  have  had  a  vogue  almost  unparal- 
leled in  the  history  of  modern  verse. 

For  the  success  of  these  books,  much 
credit  is  due  the  artist  and  illustrator,  Fred- 
erick Simpson  Coburn,  for  whom  the  Doctor 
ever  entertained  a  cordial  friendship:  These 
pictures,  breathing,  as  they  do,  the  very 
spirit  of  his  poems,  were  a  source  of  unending 
delight  to  the  poet,  and  when  the  illustra- 
tions for  The  Habitant  were  brought  to 
him,  he  looked  them  over  in  silence,  then 
turning,  to  the  artist  with  outstretched  hand, 
said,  "Fred,  you  and  I  can  never  be  parted," 
and  certainly  neither  pictures  nor  poems 
would  be  complete,  one  without  the  other. 

Recently  I  asked  Mr.  Coburn  for  some 
reminiscences  of  Dr.  Drummond,  and  this 
is  how  he  replied : 

I  have  to  smile  as  I  sit  here  and  look  back  to 
some  of  those  hurried  visits  to  the  country, 
which  almost  invariably  marked  the  occasion 
of  my  trips  to  town  to  see  him  with  reference 
to  my  illustrations.  What  a  great  big  boy 
he  was,  and  how  he  loved  to  get  out  to  the 


William  Henry  Drummond      41 

woods  or  onto  the  water,  and  I  have  a  sort 
of  secret,  sneaking  idea  that  he  was  some- 
times afraid  that  you  would  spoil  one  of 
these  caprices  of  his — perhaps  by  objecting 
that  such  and  such  a  visit  or  duty,  or  some- 
thing— just  anything  practical — ought  to  be 
done.  Once  when  we  went  out  to  St.  Bruno 
I  felt  this,  and  I  wras  in  mortal  terror  that 
anything — this  something  practical  or  every- 
day-ism— might  crop  up  while  this  desire 
was  on  him.  I  had  just  come  in  from  Rich- 
mond, and  the  smell  of  the  country  must 
have  been  in  my  clothes,  for  no  sooner  had 
he  seen  me  than  he  suggested  St.  Bruno,  and 
St.  Bruno  (among  other  things)  meant 
fields  and  water,  and  water  meant  fishing; 
so,  in  less  than  ten  minutes  (without  ever 
thinking  of  the  illustrations  I  had  brought) 
the  fishing-tackle  was  out,  and  we  were  on 
the  car  to  Bonaventure.  I,  of  course,  had  to 
carry  the  fishing-rod  on  the  car  and  on  the 
train  (just  as  if  /  were  going  out  fishing  and 
didn't  know  the  Doctor  at  all — I  didn't 
touch  the  fishing-rod  again  till  we  got  back 
to  town).  That  was  the  day  that  Mrs. 
George  Drummond  drove  us  down  to  the 
station,  and  only  after  she  had  got  out  of 
sight  on  her  return,  did  we  find  that  there 
had  been  an  accident  on  the  line  near  St. 
Hyacinthe,  and  that  there  would  be  no  train 
for  three  hours.  There  were  only  three 
cigars  in  all  St.  Bruno,  and  we  sat  on  a  rail- 
fence  in  front  of  the  station  and  smoked 


42      William  Henry  Drummond 

these  cigars  (not  Havanas,  just  domestic — 
very  domestic — kitchen-garden  like)  up  to 
within  one-eighth  of  an  inch  of  the  end. 

I  made  a  sketch,  which  I  have  here,  of  an 
old  barn  from  the  same  'rail-fence,  while  the 
Doctor  told  stories  in  townships'  dialect 
while  waiting  for  the  freight  train,  which 
bravely  kept  up  the  record  of  that  branch 
of  the  service  for  speed.  We  landed  some- 
where in  St.  Lambert  in  the  dark — climbed 
fences  and  over  waste  ground,  through 
whole  fields  of  tomato  cans,  I  with  the  fishing- 
rod,  and  the  Doctor — for  all  the  world  like 
returning  from  "an  errand  of  mercy"  in 
Griffintown— no  fish! 

When  the  country  was  out  of  the  question, 
and  the  season  was  propitious,  there  was  a 
little  oyster  place  on  St.  Catherine  St.  (just 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill  on  the  right-hand  side 
going  down  past  Bleury  St.)  which  was  also 
very  dear  to  his  heart.  I  used  to  have  to 
reconnoitre  to  see  if  the  ground  was  clear  first. 

These  were  the  worst  of  his  escapades — 
this  breaking  away  from  dignity  and  re- 
straint— feeling  like  a  "kid."  I  wonder  if  I 
inspired  this  sentiment,  or  whether  he  felt 
safe  in  my  company?  The  funny  part  is 
that  I  don't  care  a  bit  for  the  country,  and 
still  less  for  oysters. 

He  had  kept  all  the  illusions  of  youth, 
and  in  these  stolen  trips,  found  his  greatest 
pleasure.  "  It  is  n't  the  fish  we  catch, ' '  he  said, 
"but  just  everything  that  goes  to  make  up 


William  Henry  Drummond      43 

the  trip — the  freedom,  the  trees,  the  water, 
the  little  birds  singing  away — Oh,  there  's 
a  great  fascination  in  it  all." 

It  was  the  love  of  the  country,  to  which 
Mr.  Coburn  alludes  above,  that  prompted 
the  writing  of  stanzas  like  the  following: 

' '  Have  you  ever  heard  the  mountains  calling 

to  the  spring? 
Have  you  ever  seen  the  rivers  flashing 

by? 

Have  you  ever  paused  to  listen  to  the  mal- 
lard's whirring  wing, 
Or  marked  the  grey  goose  column  on  the 
sky? 

4 '  Have  you  ever  spied  the  drummer  strutting 

near  the  bend, 
Where  the  alders  shade  the  tiger  of  the 

stream? 
Have  you  ever  kicked  yourself  all  over,  my 

dear  friend, 
When  you  woke  and  found  alas  't  was 

but  a  dream? 
I  have,  so  have  I!" 

Dr.  -Drummond  was  an  expert  fisherman, 
and  no  one  could  "play"  a  fighting  fish 
with  more  skill  and  enjoyment  than  he,  but 
for  the  methods  of  the  "fish  hog"  who 


44     William  Henry  Drummond 

reckoned  his  sport  by  the  extent  of  the 
slaughter,  he  had  only  contempt  or  amuse- 
ment, according  to  the  degree  of  the  offence. 

For  hunting  he  had  little  taste,  declaring 
that  deer  were  such  innocent-looking  ani- 
mals, and  such  an  ornament  to  the  forest, 
that  he  could  not  bear  to  destroy  them, 
and  when  news  came,  as  it  sometimes  did, 
of  the  wilful  and  lawless  slaughter  of  these 
forest  creatures,  his  anger  blazed  forth.  It 
was  an  occasion  of  this  kind  which  drew 
from  his  pen  the  poem  "Deer  Hunting," 
all  bristling  with  the  keenest  satire.  And  a 
close  friend  of  the  Doctor's,  talking  with  me 
the  other  day  on  this  subject,  said:  "It  was 
after  a  talk  that  I  had  with  the  Doctor,  that 
I  realized  I  had  shot  my  last  deer.  He  put 
the  thing  in  an  entirely  new  light,  and  made 
me  feel  like  a  murderer." 

But  in  spite  of  these  sentiments,  Dr.  Drum- 
mond would  often  join  writh  friends  in  hunt- 
ing expeditions,  when  his  ready  wit  and 
humour  charmed  and  delighted  the  entire 
party. 


William  Henry  Drummond      45 

If  the  wild  creatures  claimed  his  protection 
so  also  did  the  domestic  animals,  and  shortly 
before  his  death  he  actually  thrashed  a 
coal-carter  who  was  abusing  his  horse. 

It  was  during  the  summer  of  1905  that, 
in  company  with  his  brothers,  he  became 
interested  in  Cobalt,  and,  undertaking  the 
surveillance  of  the  Drummond  Mines,  spent 
most  of  his  time  in  that  district.  The  climate 
of  northern  Ontario  delighted  him,  and  his 
interest  was  not  confined  to  the  harvest  of 
shekels  alone,  but  embraced  the  lakes  and 
forests  of  that  region,  and  the  hordes  of 
rough  miners  that  infested  it.  Since  his 
death,  it  has  been  suggested  that  wealth 
might  have  spoiled  him,  but  we  who  knew  him 
best  believe  that  to  "simple  great  hearts" 
such  as  his  wealth  brings  no  alloy.  How- 
ever, to  use  his  own  words,  ' '  Enough  money 
to  own  a  strip  of  salmon  water,  and  the 
best  Irish  terrier  going,  and  to  be  able  to 
help  a  friend  in  need,"  was  all  he  craved. 

During  his  last  stay  in  Montreal,  he 
attended  the  annual  dinner  of  St.  Patrick's 


46      William  Henry  Drummond 

Society,  and  read  to  the  charmed  company 
his  last  completed  poem,  "We  're  Irish  Yet," 
which  had  been  specially  written  for  this 
occasion.  In  the  midst  of  his  reading,  the 
light  failed;  "but  I  just  kept  on  till  it  came 
back  again,"  he  told  me  afterwards.  And  to 
me  it  seems  that,  though,  in  the  midst  of  his 
usefulness,  the  light  of  his  life  went  out, 
his  voice  will  continue  to  be  heard  far  down 
the  ages. 

It  had  been  his  intention  to  spend  Easter 
Day  of  1907  with  us  in  Montreal,  but  hearing 
that  smallpox  had  broken  out  in  the  camp 
at  Cobalt,  he  hurried  away  a  week  earlier. 
The  night  of  his  departure  from  Montreal 
he  seemed  possessed  by  a  strange  and  over- 
whelming reluctance  to  go.  "I  don't  know 
why  I  hate  so  much  to  go  away  this  time," 
he  said;  and  I,  thinking  that  his  health 
was  not  as  good  as  usual,  would  have  per- 
suaded him  to  stay  at  home,  but  no,  his 
duty  lay  there  with  the  sick  of  the  little 
camp,  and  bidding  us  an  unusually  solemn 
good-bye,  he  left  the  home  he  was  never 


William  Henry  Drummond      47 

more  to  enter.  It  was  just  a  week  from  this 
time  that  he  was  stricken  with  cerebral 
hemorrhage,  and  on  the  morning  of  April 
6th,  after  five  unconscious  days,  passed 
to  the  beyond.  A  broken-hearted  little 
band,  we  brought  our  Chief  back  to  Mon- 
treal, and  his  mortal  remains  were  taken 
to  St.  George's  Church,  where,  amid  count- 
less floral  offerings,  they  lay,  while  his  friends, 
the  rich  and  the  poor  alike,  came  with  stream- 
ing eyes  to  look  their  last  on  this  man  who 
had  so  justly  earned  the  title  of  "every- 
body's friend."  The  church  was  crowded, 
and  even  out  in  the  streets,  with  the  heavy 
snowflakes  drifting  down  on  them,  the 
people  stood  to  do  him  this  last  honour. 

On  the  side  of  Mount  Royal,  where  but  a 
year  before  his  mother  had  been  laid  to  rest, 
he  now  lies  himself,  with  "little  Billy"  close 
beside  him,  and  all  around  the  perfect  beauty 
of  Canadian  scenery.  "What  a  place  for  a 
man  who  loved  Canada  to  lie!"  were  his 
own  words  on  visiting  this  spot  for  the  first 
time,  and  truly  the  man  who  lies  there  now 


48      William  Henry  Drummond 

loved  Canada,  and  fought  not  only  for  the 
unity  of  her  differing  races,  but  for  all  that 
was  purest  and  best  in  her  moral  and  intel- 
lectual progress. 

On  the  plain  flat  headstone  which  marks 
his  resting-place,  these  words }  from  his 
favourite  poetess  of  the  Glens  of  Antrim,  are 
engraved : 

Youth  's  for  an  hour, 
Beauty  's  a  flower, 
But  love  is  the  jewel  that  wins  the  world. 

It  was  with  love  that  he  won  the  heart  of 
his  adopted  country,  and  now  that  his 
work  for  her  is  done,  love  is  the  tribute  she 
lays  at  his  feet. 

"A  great  fight,  and  a  good  death,*  *  * 
Trust  him,  he  would  not  fail." 

MAY  HARVEY  DRUMMOND. 


WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND 


(The  following  verses  were  written  by  Dr.  Drutn- 
mond's  old  friend,  E.  W.  Thomson,  of  Ottawa.) 


LANDLORD,  take  a  double  fee,  and  let 
the  banquet  slide, 
Send  the  viands,  send  the  wine  to  cheer  the 

poor  outside, 
Turn   the    glasses   upside   down,    leave   the 

room  alight, 

Let  the  flower-strewn  tables  stand  glittering 
all  the  night. 


Everybody's  friend  is  gone,  hushed  his  gentle 

mirth, 
Sweeter-hearted    comrade    soul    none    shall 

know  on  earth, 

Burly  body,  manly  mind,  upright-lifted  head, 
Viking   eyes    and   smiling  lips — Dr.   Drum- 

mond  's  dead  ! 

49 


50     William  Henry  Drummond 

For  the  Club,  for  the  feast,  and  for  the  busy 

street 
Primal  natural  airs  he  brought,  Oh,  so  fresh 

and  sweet! 
Brattling  rivers,  gleaming  lakes,  wild-flower 

forest  floors, 
To  heal  the  City's  weary  heart  with  balms  of 

out-of-doors. 


But  where  the  camp-fire-litten  boughs  swing 

swaying  overhead, 
And  wondering  wolf  and  lynx  shrill  wild  the 

boding  of  their  dread, 
And  strangely  through  the  moony  night  tlie 

hooting  owlets  roam, 
His  tones  would  yearn  in  gladsome  talk  about 

the  doors  of  Home. 


In  sympathy  with  every  pain  of  all  who  bear 

the  yoke, 
There  was  a  natural  piety  in  all  he  wrote 

and  spoke, 
He  warmed  with  Irish  pride  in  deeds  defying 

Might's  strong  host, 
Yet  ever  shared  the  Saxon  sense  for  ruling 

at  the  roast. 


William  Henry  Drummond     51 

He  bore  the  poet's  shifting  heart  that  puts 

itself  in  place 
Of  every  humble  kindly  soul  it  knows  of 

every  race, 
He  felt  their  sorrow  as  their  joy,  but  chose 

the  strain  to  cheer 
And  help  the  differing  breeds  to  share  one 

patriot  feeling  here. 

There  was  no  better  loyalist  than  this  whose 

humours  played 
In  pleasant  human  wise  to  serve  the  State 

two  races  made — 
O  Landlord,  turn  the  glasses  down,  and  leave 

the  room  alight, 
And    let    the    flower-sweet    silence  -tell    his 

shade  our  grief  to-night. 

OTTAWA,  April  9,  1907. 


BAD  luck  to  fight  on  New  Year's  night 
An'  wit'  your  neighbour  man, 
But  w'en  you  know  de  reason  w'y 
I  hit  heem  hard  on  bote  hees  eye, 
An'  kick  heem  till  he  nearly  die, 
I  t'ink  you  '11  understan'. 

If  you  could  see  ma  wife  an'  me 

At  home  on  Pigeon  Bay, 

You  'd  say,  "How  nice  dey  bote  agree! 

Dey  mus'  be  firse-class  familee 

An'  go  de  sam'  as  wan,  two,  tree," 

I  know  dat  's  w'at  you  say. 

An'  New  Year's  Day  on  Pigeon  Bay, 

You  ought  to  see  us  den, 

Wit  parlor  feex  it  up  so  fine, 

Spruce  beer  an'  w'isky,  cake  an'  wine, 

Cigar — an'  only  very  bes'  kin* 

For  treatin'  all  our  frien'. 

55 


56  The  Great  Fight 

But  on  de  las'  New  Year  is  pas' 
De  win'  begin  to  rise, 
An'  snow  she  dreef  in  such  a  way, 
Wen  mornin'   come,  ma  wife  she  say, 
"Dere  won't  be  many  folk  to-day, 
Or  I  11  be  moche  surprise." 

We  never  see,  ma  wife  an'  me, 
So  quiet  New  Year  Day, 
But  very  happy  all  de  sam', 
An'  talk  a  lot  about  de  tarn' 
Before  she  come  to  me,  ma  femme, 
Wile  kettle  sing  away. 

An'  as  we  talk,  de  good  ole  clock 
Go  tick,  tick  on  de  wall, 
De  cat 's  asleep  upon  de  stair, 
De  house  is  quiet  ev'ry  w'ere, 
An'  Jean  Bateese,  hees  image  dere, 
Is  smilin'  over  all. 

I  buy  dat  leetle  Jean  Bateese 
On  Market  Bonsecour, 
Two  dollar  an'  your  money  down, 
He  's  fines'  wan  for  miles  aroun', 
Can  hardly  beat  heem  on  de  town, 
An'  so  I  love  heem  sure. 


The  Great  Fight  57 

Wat 's  dat  I  hear,  but  never  fear, 
Dere  's  no  wan  on  de  door? 
Yass,  sure  enough,  Joe  Beliveau, 
An'  nearly  smoder  wit'  de  snow. 
Entrez !     We  're  glad  to  see  you,  Joe — 
Wy  don't  you  come  before  ? 

"Bonjour,  Ma-dame — Camille,  your   femme, 

She  's  younger  ev'ry  day; 

I  hope  de  New  Year  will  be  bright, 

I  hope  de  baby  feel  all  right, 

Don't  wake  you  up  too  moche  at  night?" 

An'  dat 's  w'at  Joe  he  say. 

He  's  so  polite  it 's  only  right 

We  wish  heem  ev'ry  t'ing 

Dat 's  good  upon  de  worl'  at  all, 

An'  geev  heem  two  tree  w'at  you  call 

Dat  fancy  Yankee  stuff,  "high  ball," 

An'  den  he  start  to  sing. 

You  dunno  Joe?     Wall,  you  mus'  know 

He  's  purty  full  of  life, 

An'  w'en  he  's  goin'  dat  way — Joe, 

Mus'  tak'  heem  leetle  easy,  so 

I  don't  say  not'ing  w'en  he  go 

For  start  an'  kiss  ma  wife. 


58  The  Great  Fight 

An'  up  an'  down  dey  dance  aroun' 

An'  laugh  an'  mak'  de  fun, 

For  spree  lak'  dat,  on  New  Year's  Day, 

Is  not' ing  moche  on  Pigeon  Bay, 

Beside  he  's  frien'  of  me  alway, 

An'  so  dere  's  no  harm  done. 

I  lak'  to  know  jus'  how  it  go, 
Dat  w'en  we  feel  secure 
Not'ing  at  all  is  goin'  wrong, 
An'  life  is  lak'  a  pleasan'  song, 
De  devil 's  boun'  to  come  along, 
An'  mak'  some  trouble  sure. 

For  bimeby,  Joe  cock  hees  eye,    • 
An'  see  poor  Jean  Bateese, 
An'  say  right  off,  "If  I  can't  show 
A  better  wan  at  home,  I  '11  go 
An'  drown  me  on  de  crick  below," 
So  dat 's  de  en'  of  peace. 

Dis  very  day  along  de  Bay, 
Dey  tell  about  de  fight. 
Never  was  seen  such  bloody  war, 
On  Pigeon  Bay  before,  ba  gor' ! 
An'  easy  understan'  it,  for 
De  battle  las'  all  night. 


The  Great  Fight  59 

So  hard  we  go,  dat  me  an'  Joe 

Get  tire  soon,  an'  den 

We  bote  sit  down  an'  tak'  de  res' 

For  half  a  secon',  mebbe  less, 

An'  w'en  de  win'  come  on  our  ches', 

We  start  her  up  again. 

De  house  is  shake  lak'  beeg  eart'quake, 

De  way  we  jump  aroun', 

An'  people  living  far  away, 

Dey  lissen  hard  an'  den  dey  say, 

"It 's  all  up,  sure,  wit'  Pigeon  Bay — 

She  's  tumble  to  de  groun'." 

'T  was  bad  enough,  de  way  we  puff, 

But  w'en  de  stovepipe  fall, 

An'  all  de  smoke  begin  to  tear 

Right  t'roo  de  house,  an'  choke  de  air,  < 

An  me  an'  Joe  can't  see  no  w'ere, 

Dat  's  very  wors'  t'ing  of  all. 

It  's  not  a  joke,  de  maudit  smoke — 
Dat 's  w'at  I  'm  tellin'  you— 
But  sure  enough  it  stop  de  fight; 
It  's  easy  killin'  Joe  all  right, 
But  w'at  about  de  wife  all  right 
An'  rnebbe  baby  too? 


6o 


The  Great  Fight 


A  man  dat  's  brave,  should  always  save 
De  woman  she  's  hees  wife ; 
Dat 's  firse  t'ing  he  mus'  do  an'  wen 
I  open  de  door,  Joe's  runnin'  den, 
As  hard  as  he  can  lick,  ma  frien', 
So  all  han's  save  hees  life. 

An'  since  de  fight,  dey  're  all  polite, 

Dey  smile  an'  touch  de  hat, 

An'  say,  "I  hope  you  're  feelin'   purty  gay, 

An'  no  more  fight  on  Pigeon  Bay, 

Or  else  you  '11  kill  a  man  some  day." 

So  w'at  you  t'ink  of  dat? 


VICTORIA  SQUARE 

(An  Idyll) 

OH!  we  are  a  band  of  bummers,  and  for 
many  joyous  summers 
On  the  Square  that 's  called  "Victoria"  we 

have  sported  on  the  green. 
"Evan's  Corner"  erstwhile  knew  us,  but  the 

blooming  coppers  flew  us, 
So  we  sought  the   kind  protection  of  Her 
Majesty  the  Queen. 

Her  Majesty  the  Queen! 
Lord  bless   the   big   bronze    Statue   of   Her 
Majesty  the  Queen. 

Ah,  it 's  there  we  love  to  linger  till  what  time 

the  rosy  finger 
Of  Aurora  paints  the  heavens  with  golden 

rays  serene, 
And  altho'   our  lives  are   "checkered,"  yet 

we  've  always  held  the  record 
For  strong  unchanging  fealty  to  the  Statue 

of  the  Queen. 

61 


62  Victoria  Square 

To  the  Statue  of  the  Queen! 
Oh !  we  're  the  Guard  of  Honour  to  the  Statue 
of  the  Queen. 

Sitting  round  the  sun-kissed  fountain,   sit- 
uate between  the  mountain 

And   the   river    gently    flowing,   oh!    't  is   a 
pleasant  scene. 

For    alternately    the     breezes     from    both 
sources  come  to  please  us, 

As  we  linger  round  the  Statue  of  Her  Majesty 
the  Queen. 

The  Statue  of  the  Queen! 

As   we   worship   round   the   Statue   of   Her 
Majesty  the  Queen. 

Like   veterans  in  the  trenches,   we   occupy 
the  benches, 

Where  we  watch  the  busy  sparrows  as  they 
flutter  round  their  nests ; 

And   the  new  wild-eyed   bacteria  we   have 
introduced,  would  weary  a 

Wyatt  Johnston,  for  he  'd  find  them  unre- 
sponsive to  his  tests. 

Unresponsive  to  his  tests! 

Oh!  we  think  we  see  them  smiling  'neath  his 
pathologic  tests. 


Victoria  Square  63 

We  are  born  of  many  nations,  we  have  rules 
and  regulations 

Which  if  any  member  fracture,  we  arise  in  all 
our  wrath — 

Then  you  ought  to  hear  him  holler,  as  we 
seize  him  by  the  collar, 

For  well  he  knows  his  punishment  necessi- 
tates a  bath. 

Necessitates  a  bath! 

Oh!  the  agony  inflicted  by  the  order  of  the 
bath! 

Oh!  the  scientific  lacin'  we  applied  to  Billy 

Mason, 
And  submerged  him  in  the  basin  while  the 

coppers  were  away, 
And  before  the  coppers  found  him,  we  had 

very  nearly  drowned  him 
'Cause  he  wore  a  laundered  night-shirt  on 

Victoria's  Natal  Day! 

On  Victoria's  Natal  Day! 
Tho'  he  said  he  only  donned  it  just  in  honour 

of  the  day. 

For  there  's  one  thing  we  take  pride  in,  't  is 

the  shadow  we  abide  in 
Of  the  glorious  law  of  freedom,  unchange- 

abilitee ; 


64  Victoria  Square 

Then  let  us  range  unfettered,  tho'  we  may 
be  unlettered, 

For   we    furnish    picturesqueness    and    true 
simplicitee. 

And  true  simplicitee, 

As  we  camp  around  the  Statue  of  Her  Glor- 
ious Majestee! 


'"THERE  'S  a  girl  at  Calabogie  an'  another 
•••      at  the  Soo, 
An'  with  sparkin'  and  colloguin',  I  've  been 

foolish  with  the  two; 
But  I  'm  foolish  now  for  ever,  an'  worst  of 

all  it  come 
From  a  girl  I  thought  was  dacint  when  I 

used  to  live  at  home. 


She  could  dance  to  bate  the  fairies  that  my 

gran'mother  'ud  tell 
Over   there   in   Ireland   ha'nted   what   they 

call  the  "holy  well." 
She  was  purty  as  a  wood-duck  whin  you 

see  him  on  a  tree , 
But  so  proud  and  independint  that  she  'd 

never  look  at  me. 

s  65 


66  Marriage 

So   it  made   me   feel   onaisy,   an'   I   drifted 

far  away, 
An'  I  wint  to  Calabogie  a  workin'  by    the 

day. 
Of  any  kind  of  money  the  place  is  mighty 

bare, 
But  a  girl  that  took  my  fancy  happened  to 

be  livin'  there. 


Still    the    other   down    the    river — how  I  'd 

dream  of  her  at  night! 
Spite   of  all   the   times   I  'd  wish  her  gone 

completely  out  o'  sight, 
For  she  used  to  spile  the  comfort  with  the 

new  wan  that  I  had, 
An'  a  little  consolation  sure  I  needed  purty 

bad. 


Thin  the  times  begin  to  slacken,  an'  I  'm  get- 
tin'  hard  up  too, 

So  good-bye  to  Calabogie,  an'  I  started  for 
the  Soo; 

An'  the  girl  I  left  behind  me?  Lord  knows, 
it  's  hard  to  tell, 

But  another  came  between,  an'  she  liked  me 
.  just  as  well. 


Marriage  67 

Whin  you  speak  of  bad  luck  comin',  mine 

is  worse  nor  any  man's — 
Think  of  all  the  good  intintions  an'  with  two 

o'  thim  on  my  han's ! 
One   of   thim   at   Calabogie,    an'    the   other 

at  the  Soo, 
An'  engaged  to  both,  it 's  hard  to  say  exactly 

what  to  do. 


The  Cobalt-silver  fever  was  the  worst  that  's 

ever  known, 
An'  it  came  in  purty  handy  in' cases  like  my 

own; 
Besides  of  all  the  chances,  't  was  the  one  I 

fancied  best, 
So  I  had  to  go  prospectin'  jus'  the    same 

as  all  the  rest. 


An'  the  girls,  of  course  they  suffered,  for  I 

had  n't  time  to  write, 
Divil  a  thing  but  pick  an'  shovel,  an'  workin 

day  an'  night, — • 
Till  a  dacint  wild-cat  claim  I  sold  for  fifteen 

thousand  too — 
Now  I  sez,  "It 's  all  a  toss-up — Calabogie  or 

the  Soo?" 


68  Marriage 

Calabogie  won  it  aisy,  but,  the  next  thing 

that  I  heard, 
She  got  tired  o'  waitin'  for  me  whin  she  never 

got  a  word ; 
So  she  married  John  Mahaffy — "little  John" 

that  runs  the  farm, 
An'    the    only    thing    she    wished    me    was, 

"I  'd  never  come  to  harm." 


An'  the  Soo  girl  done  the  same  thing — took 

a  brakesman  on  a  freight ; 
An'  in  Winnipeg  they  're  livin',  so  I  come  a 

trifle  late; 
But  I  'm  not  afeared  to  visit  Calabogie  or  the 

Soo, 
For   I  've   tried   to   do   my   duty,   an'    sure 

ayther  wan  'ud  do! 


Well,  I  stood  it  for  a  little  an'  thin  home  agin 

I  wint, 
For  with  fifteen  thousand  dollars,  any  man 

should  be  contint, 
An'  the  girl  that  used  to  give  me  many  a 

beautiful  heartache, 
Sure  I  was  n't  back  a  fortnight,  till  I  seen 

her  at  a  wake. 


Marriage  69 

Quiet  now!     No  palpitation !     Watch  yerself, 

my  laddy  buck, 
Take  your  time — don't  get  excited — maybe 

you  '11  have  better  luck. 
Then  she  said  her  darlin'  mother  missed  me 

for  a  year  or  more, 
'T  would   have   saved   some   trouble   if   her 

mother  spoke  like  that  before. 


"Wan   thing   leadeth   to   another"    sez   the 

poet — dunno  who, 
But    we    purty    soon   got    married,    so    the 

prophecy  come  true; 
An'  whinever    all    my  fortune's  settled  on 

the  daughter  sure, 
Some  wan  seen  the  mother  dance  a  sailor's 

hornpipe  on  the  floor. 

It 's  no  wonder  I  'm  distracted  whin  the  two 

o'  thim  '11  say, 
"Oh!  Patrick,  mind  the  baby,  sure  you  got 

out  yesterday" — 
Lord  forgive  me,  I  'd  be  happy  if  the  ould 

wan  only  died, 
But   she  's   healthy   as   a   tom-cat,    an'    she 

could  n't  if  she  tried. 


7°  Marriage 

I  suppose  I  'm  doin'  pinance  for  the  sins  of 

airly  youth, 
Tho'  I  blame  it  on  the  women — they  betrayed 

me — that 's  the  truth. 
But  for  all  I  know  about  thim,  't  would  have 

been  the  same  thing  too, 
With  the  girl  from  Calabogie,  or  the  other 

at  the  Soo. 


WE  'RE  IRISH  YET 

WHAT  means  this  gathering  to-night? 
What  spirit  moves  along 
The  crowded  hall,  and,  touching  light 

Each  heart  among  the  throng, 
Awakes,  as  tho'  a  trumpet  blast 

Had  sounded  in  their  ears, 
The  recollections  of  the  past, 
The  memories  of  the  years? 

Oh!  't  is  the  spirit  of  the  West, 

The  spirit  of  the  Celt, 
The   breed  that   spurned  the  alien  breast, 

And  every  wrong  has  felt— 
And  still,  tho'  far  from  fatherland, 

We  never  can  forget 
To  tell  ourselves,  with  heart  and  hand, 

We  're  Irish  yet!     We  're  Irish  yet! 

And  they  outside  the  clan  of  Conn 

Would  understand,  but  fail, 
The  mystic  music  played  upon 

The  heart-strings  of  the  Gael — 

71 


72  We  're  Irish  Yet 

His  ear,  and  his  alone,  can  tell 

The  soul  that  lies  within, 
The  music  which  he  knows  so  well, 

The  voice  of  Kith  and  Kin. 

He  hears  the  tales  of  old,  old  days 

Of  battle  fierce  by  ford  and  hill, 
Of  ancient  Senachie's  martial  lays, 

And  race  unconquered  still. 
It  challenges  with  mother's  pride 

And  dares  him  to  forget 
That,  tho'  he  cross  the  ocean  wide, 

He  's  Irish  yet!     He  's  Irish  yet! 

His  eye  may  never  see  the  blue 

Of  Ireland's  April  sky, 
His  ear  may  never  listen  to 

The  song  of  lark  on  high, 
But  deep  within  his  Irish  heart 

Are  cloisters,  dark  and  dim, 
No  human  hand  can  wrench  apart, 

And  the  lark  still  sings  for  him. 

We  've  bowed  beneath  the  chastening  rod, 
We  've  had  our  griefs  and  pains, 

But    with    them    all,    we    still    thank    God, 
The  Blood  is  in  our  veins, 


7f  We  re  Irish  Yet 

His  ear.  and  his  alone,  can  tell 

The  -ml  that  li  lin, 

The  music  which  he  knows  so  well, 

The  voice  of  Ki«  Kin. 

He  hears  the  tales  <  id  days 
Of  battle  fiera  .ad  hill, 

Of  ancient  Sena<  ;al  lays, 

And  race  unconqv  ill. 

es  with  n.j    ,  Jt  ••  aride 

nis  in  front  of  the  ofaiJrummond 

nd  dares  \WeVn  Ireland. 


He  's  Irish  yet  '  sh  yet! 

His  e>*e  may  never  -  >lue 

Of  Ireland's  A} 
His  ear  may  ne\ 

The  song  of  lar"~ 
But  deep  within  1.  heart 

Are  cloisters,  d  m, 

No  human  hand  •  h  apart, 

And  the  lark  still  >r  him. 

i>owred  beneath  the  chastening  rod, 
We  've  had  our  griefs  and  pains, 
But    .vith    them   all,    we    still    thank    God, 
Thv  Blood  is  in  our  veins, 


We  're  Irish  Yet  73 

The  ancient  blood  that  knows  no  fear, 

The  Stamp  is  on  us  set, 
And  so,  however  foes  may  jeer, 

We  're  Irish  yet !     We  're  Irish  yet. 


DID  you  ever  see  an  air-hole  on  the  ice 
Wit'  de  smoke  a  risin'  roun'  about  it 

dere? 
De  reever  should  be  happy  w'ere  it  's  feelin' 

warm  an'  nice, 
But  she  t'ink  she  ought  to  get  a  leetle  air. 


An'  she  want  to  be  a  lookin'  on  de  sky, 
So  of  course  de  cole  win'  hit  her  on  de 

nose — 
"I  '11   come   up    again,"    she   say,    "on    de 

spring  tarn,  bimeby, 

But  I  'm  better  now  below,"  and  off  she 
goes. 

Dat  's  de  way  I  feel  mese'f  on  de  farm  a 

year  ago, 
W'ere    ev'ryt'ing    should    be    a    pleasan' 

dream ; 
Lak  de  foolish  reever  dere,  I  'm  not  satisfy 

below, 
So  I  got  to  let  me  off  a  leetle  steam. 

74 


\&0  \\ 
.«•»«• 


DID  you  ever  see  an  air-hole  on  the  ice 
Wit'  de  smoke  a  risin'  roun'  about  it 

dere  ? 

De  reever  should  be  happy  w'ere  it  's  feelin' 
warm  an'  nice, 

But  she  t'ink  she  ought  to  get  a  leetle  air. 
Den  a  man  he  come  along  an  ne  say  to  me, 

'  Look  here — 
An'  &on' ky^$wp^a£pfa4lifl0  c< 

So  of  course^  de.  cole  wiu.'  -il^ 

From  a  drawing  Ky  Frederick  Simpsc 

nose — 
"I  '11     '»me   up   again,"   she   say,    "on    de 

spring  tarn,  bimeby, 

But  1  'm  better  now  below,"  and  off  she 
goes. 

Dat  's  de  way  I  feel  mese'f  on  de  farm  a 

year  ago, 
W'ere    ev'ryt'ing    should    be    a    pleasan' 

dream ; 
Lak  de  foolish  reever  dere,  I  'm  not  satisfy 

below, 
So  I  got  to  let.  me  off  a  leetle  steam. 

74 


Chibougamou  75 

Den  a  man  he  come  along  an'  he  say  to  me, 

"Look  here— 
Don't    you    know    that    place    dey    call 

Chibougamou 

Were  de  diamon'   lie  aroun'  like  de  mush- 
room on  de  groun', 
An  dey  're  findin'  all  de  gole  an  silver  too? 


"Wat 's  de  use  of  stayin'  here  den?     Did  n't 

Johnnie  Drutusac 
Lif  de  mor'gage  off  hees  place  an'  buy  a 

cow? 
Only  gone  a  leetle  w'ile — hardly  miss  heem 

till  he  's  back; 

He  's  easy  workin'  man  too,  an'  look  at 
Johnnie  now? 


"Well  enough,   ma  frien',  you  know  I  can 

never  tell  de  lie 
Wen  I  say  de    gole    is    comin'   t'ousan' 

ounces  on  de  ton, 
An'  de  solid  silver  mak'  you  feel  funny  on  de 

eye, 

Lak  de  snow-blin'  on   de   winter  w'en  it 
shine  de  morning  sun. 


76  Chibougamou 

"I  s'pose  you  won't  believe,  but  you  know 

dat  gravel  walk 
Ma  fader  got  it  facin'  on  hees  house  at 

St.  Bidou— 
But  w'at  's  de  use  of  spikin',  w'at  's  de  use 

of  talk? 

Dat 's  de  way  you  see  de  diamon'  on  dat 
place  Chibougamou. 


' '  Course  you  got  to  go  an'  fin'  dem  quickly, 

or  de  stranger  man 
Come     along    wit'     plaintee     barrel — an' 

you  're  never  knowin'  w'en 
Couple  o'  Yankee  off  the  State,  he  was  buyin' 

all  de  Ian' ; 

Affer  dat  an'  w'ere  's  your  gole  an'  silver 
goin'  den? 

"So,  Bateese,  get  up  an'  hurry,  sell  de  farm, 

mon  cher  ami, 
Leave  de  girl  an'  bring  provision,  pork  an' 

bean,  potato  too, 
Leetle  w'isky,  an'  I  '11  put  heem  on  de  safe 

place  under  me 

Wile  I  sit  an'  steer  you  off  to  dat  place 
Chibougamou." 


Chibougamou  77 

Oh!  de  day  an'  night  we  're  passin',  me  dat 

never  was  before 
On  de  bush,  except  w'en  heifer  go  away 

an'  den  got  los' ; 
Oh!  de  pullin'  an'  de  haulin',till  I  'm  feelin' 

purty  sore, 

But  of  all  de  troub  an'  worry,  de  skeeter, 
he  's  de  boss. 


Beeg?  lak  de  leetle  two-mont'  robin.     Sing? 

lak  a  sawmill  on  de  spring. 
Put  de  blanket  roun'  your  body  an'  den 

he  bite  you  troo. 
Me,  I  never  tak'  hees  measure,  but  I  t'ink 

across  de  wing 

He  's  tree  inch  sure — dem  skeeter,  on  dat 
place  Chibougamou. 

De  man  he  's  goin'  wit'  me,  never  paddle, 

never  haul, 
Jus'  smoke  an'  watch  an'  lissen  for  dat 

ole  Chibougamou; 
I  s'pose  he  can't  be  bodder  doin'  any  work 

at  all, 

For   de   feller   tak'   you   dere   mus'    have 
not'ing  else  to  do. 


78  Chibougamou 

T'ousan'  mile  we  mak'  de  travel — t'ousan' 

mile  an'  mebbe  more, 
An'  I  do  de  foolish  prayin'  lak'  I  never 

pray  at  home, 
'Cos  I  want  a  chance  to  get  it,  only  let  me 

see  de  shore 

Of  Chibougamou  a  little  w'ile  before  de 
winter  come. 


No  use  prayin',  no  use  climbin'  on  de  beeg 

tree  ev'ry  day, 
Lookin'   hard  to  see  de  diamon',  an'   de 

silver,  an'  de  gole— 
I  can't  see  dem,  an'  de  summer  she  begin  to 

go  away, 

An'  de  day  is  gettin'  shorter,  an'  de  night 
is  gettin'  cole. 

So  I  kick  an'  raise  de  row  den,  an'  I  tole 

ma  frien'  lookout— 
Purty    quick    de    winter 's    comin'     an' 

we  '11  hurry  up  an'  go; 
Never  min'  de  gole  an'  silver — diamon'  too 

we  '11  go  widout, 

Or  de  only  wan  we  're  seein',  is  de  diamon' 
on  de  snow. 


78  O  amou 

• 

T'ou&an'  mile  we  mak*  de  travel — t'ousan' 

mile  an'  mebbe  IT. 
,W   I  do  de  foolish  prayin'  lak'  I  never 

pray  at  home, 
X\j*  I  want  a  chance  to  get  it,  only  let  me 

see  de  shore 

Of  Chibougamou  a  little  w'ik   before  de 
winter  come. 


No  use  pray  in',  no  use  dimbin'  on  de  beeg 

"  Oh !  ck  putttn  an'  le'haulin.  till. I  'm  feeliri . 
Looking, Jmrd  to  s 


silver,  an' 

to 


go  away, 

An'  de  day  is  g  -horter,  an'  de  night 

is  gettin'  c 


So  I  kick  an'  raist-  de  row  den,  an'  I  tole 

ma  frien'  1 
I'urty    quick    de    wintt  -         comin'     an' 

we  '11  hurry  up  an'  $?«;. 
r  min'  de  gole  an'  sihrf — diamon'  too 

we  '11  go  widout, 

<)r  cte  only  wan  we  're  set'tn',  is  de  diamon' 
on  de  snow. 


Chibougamou  79 

Mebbe  good  place   w'en  you  get  dere,  w'at 

you  call  Chibougamou, 
But   if   we   never   fin'    it,   w'at 's   de   use 

dat  place  to  me  ? 
Tak'  de  paddle,  for  we  're  goin',  an'  mese'f 

I  '11  steer  canoe, 

For  I  'm  always  firse-class  pilot  on  de  road 
to  St.  Elie. 


Oh!  to  see  me  on  de  mornin',  an'  de  way  I 

mak'  heem  sweat, 
You  can  see  de  water  droppin'  all  aroun' 

hees  neck  an'  face ; 
"Now,  Chibougamou,"  I  tell  heem,   "  hurry 

up,  an'  mebbe  yet 

You  '11  have  chance  again  to  try  it  w'en     • 
you  leave  me  on  ma  place." 


So  we  have  a  beeg  procession,  w'en  we  pass 

on  St.  Elie, 
All  de  parish  comin,  lookin'  for  de  gole  an' 

silver  too, 
But  Louise,  she  cry  so  moche  dere,  jus'  becos 

she  's  seein'  me, 

She  forget  about  de  diamon'  on  dat  ole 
Chibougamou. 


8o  Chibougamou 

Affer  all  is  gone  an'  finish,  an'  you  mak'  a  fool 

you'se'f, 
An'   de  worl'   is  go  agen  you,  w'at  's  de 

medicine  is  cure 
Lak  de  love  of  hones'  woman  w'en  she  geev 

it  all  herse'f  ? 

So  Louise  an'  me  is  happy,  no  matter  if 
we  're  poor. 


So  de  diamon'  may  be  plaintee,  lak  de  gravel 

walk  you  see 
W'en  you  're  comin'  near  de  house  of  ole 

Telesphore  Beaulieu, 
But  me,  I  got  a  diamon'  on  ma  home  on 

St.  Elie 

Can   beat   de   pile   is   lyin'   on   dat   place 
Chibougamou. 


THE  FIRST  ROBIN 

OH!  it  's  bad  to  be  unlucky  in  ev'ryt'ing 
you  do, 
An'  worse  if  you  can't  help  it,  'cos  I  'm 

de  torteen  chile, 
An'  w'en  you  play  for  number  wan,  an'  den 

you  're  number  two, 

I  wonder  w'ere  's  de  feller  he  don't  feel  a 
leetle  rile? 


Few  mont'  ago  it  happen  dat  I  'm  goin'  walk 

aroun', 
Gettin'  ready  for  de  ploughin'  is  comin'  on 

de  spring, 
An'  soon  I  wait  an'  listen,  for  I  tink  I  hear 

de  song 

Of   de   firse,    de   early   robin,    as   he   jus' 
begin  to  sing. 

It  was  very,  very  lucky  w'en  de  firse  wran 

come  along — 

An'  you  see  upon   your   farm  dere  is  de 
place  de  robin  stop, 
8l 


82  The  First  Robin 

Settle  down  to  feex  hees  fedder,  an'  com- 
mence to  mak'  hees  song — 
For  o'  course  it  's  always  makin'  beeg  dif- 
ference wit'  de  crop. 

So  I  sneak  aroun'  so  quiet,  t'roo  de  orchard 

on  de  hill, 
T'roo  de  fence,  along  de  crik  too,  w'ere 

de  snow  is  lyin'  yet— 
Ev'ry  kin'  o'  luck  agin  me  as  I  travel  dere 

until 

Ba  de  tam  de  job  is  finish,  golly,  I  was 
feelin'  wet! 

Wat  's   de   matter  wit'   dat   robin,    dat   he 

isn't  comin'  here, 
'Stead  o'  goin'  half  an  acre  jus'  to  tak' 

de  luck  away? 
No  Siree! — I  don't  forgive  heem,  if  he  leev 

a  honder  year, 

For  dere  's  hees  singin',  sin  gin'  on  de  farm 
of  Joe  Lahare. 

Joe  hese'f  is  sittin'  dere  too,  lookin'  happy 

on  hees  face, 

For  de  way  dat  bird  is  yellin',  is  enough  to 
scare  de  dead; 


82  First  Ro 

to   feex   hees   fed-'  >m- 

mt-;i*  e  t<>  mak" 

Foi     •  Bourse  it  's  ahva  Hf- 

ference  wit'  de  crop. 

So  I  sneak  aroun'  so  q.  ,rd 

on  de  hill, 

>o  de  fence,   along  de  crik 
de  snow  is  lyin' 
ry  kin'  o'  luck  agir> 
until 

dtf?iM*nl\fi*'J  link}  h 
rly  robin  as  he  jus  begin  to  sing." 

7  he  First  Robin. 
From  a  drawing  b?  Frtderick  Simeon  Coburn. 

Wat's   de   matter  wit'   dat  <lat   he 

isn't  comin'  here, 
'Stead  o'  goin'  hal- 

de  luck  away  ? 

Siree! — I  don't  forr  if  he  leev 

a  honder  y*. 

dere  's  hees  ,(rm 

of  Joe  Lahare. 

J(K-  hese'f  is  sittin'  dere  t».  >,  lookin'  happy 

•  hees  face, 

\vay  dat  bird  is  yellin',  i:-  enough  to 
•  'le  dead; 


The  First  Robin  83 

An'   he   ax  me,    "Wat  you  doin'   sneakin' 

all  aroun'  ma  place? 

Don't  you  know  I  own  dat  robin  he  was 
singin'  overhead? 

"Mebbe  he  was  work  for  not'ing,  my  leetle 

boy  Louis, 
Wen   he  's   startin'    out   dis   mornin'    for 

milkin'  on  de  cow, 
An'  he  fin'  dat  robin  flyin'  purty  near  your 

apple-tree, 

An'  he  shoo  heem  up,  an'  bring  heem  on 
de  place  you  see  heem  now. 

' '  Did  n't  get  heem  off  too  early,  for  anoder 

minute  more 
An'  I  bet  dat  robin  's  singin'  among  your 

apple-tree ; 
But  de  boy  's  too  smart  to  let  heem,   an' 

he  scare  heem  here  before 
He  begin  to  mak'  de  music — so  dat  bird 
belong  to  me. 

' '  Talk  about  your  lucky  season !     Wait  an'  see 

de  wan  I  got; 

Should  n't  wonder  if  I  'm  needin'   anoder 
waggon  sure. 


84  The  First  Robin 

How  I  wish  de  fall  would  hurry,  for  de  crop 

your  uncle  get, 

It  will  mak'  dem  all  go  crazy  on  de  market 
Bonsecours. 

"  Me — I  lissen  many  robin,  an*  de  fines'  of 

de  crowd 
Is  de  wan  dat  's  sittin  up  dere,  workin' 

w'at  you  call  de  charm ; 
Dat 's  de  robin  for  ma  money,  he  can  holler 

out  so  loud, 

But  o'  course  de  res'  was  alway  on  some 
oder  feller's  farm. 

"  Only  sorry  ma  ole  woman  is  n't  comin  here 

to  see, 
For  she  can't  help  feelin'  happy  w'en  de 

firse  bird  of  de  spring 
Mak'  hees  choice  upon  our  tree  dere,  jus'  so 

natural  an'  free, 

Non!     She  wouldn't  tak'  a  dollar  ev'ry 
tarn  dat  feller  sing." 

An'  he  sit  an'  smoke  away  dere,  Joe  Lahaie, 

an'  talk  hees  fill, 

He  's  all  right,  an'   he  don't   bodder  how 
de  res'  de  parish  go ; 


The  First  Robin  85 

Never  hear  a  man  so  foolish,  mak'  me  feelin' 

mad  until 

I  could  kill  dat  maudit  robin,  an'  Jo-seph 
Lahaie  also. 

An'  den  bimeby  de  summer  come  along,  but 

w'at  's  de  use 
Call  it  summer,   for  de  fine  day  is  w'at 

we  seldom  get. 
So  I  tak'  it  purty  easy,  for  de  man  mus'  be  a 

goose 

If  he  don't  kip  nice  an'  quiet,  w'en  de 
wedder  she  's  so  wet. 

But  Joe  Lahaie,  dat  feller,  he  was  t'ink  so 

moche,  ba  gum, 
About  hees  poor  ole  robin,  he  forget  about 

de  rain; 
Ev'ry  day  you  see  heem  workin',  an'    w'en 

de  fall  is  come 

He  got  de  fines'  crop  upon  St.  Polycarpe  de 
plaine. 

An'  me — Wall!     I  could   bet   you,  w'en  de 

springtam'  melt  de  snow, 
I  '11  never  go  to  bed  unless  I  'm  sleepin* 
on  ma  pants; 


86 


The  First  Robin 


Den  w'en  I  hear  de  robin,  hoopla!  off  she 

go. 

An'   he  '11  never  lef   ma  garden,   so   I  '11 
have  anoder  chance ! 


of  Cobalt) 


OH!  the  blooming  cheek  of  beauty,  tho' 
it  's  full  of  many  a  peril, 
Where  's  the  miner  doesn't  love  it?  for  he 

thinks  he  knows  the  girl, 
While  the  bloomer!     Oh!    the    bloomer!    of 

emancipated  She, 

May  it   bloom  and  promptly  wither  every 
seventh  century. 

Oh!  the  early  bloom  of  blossom  on  the  apple 

tree  in  June, 
Is  there  mortal  having  seen  it,  can  forget 

the  picture  soon? 
And  the  wine  of  red  October  where  Falernian 

juices  flow, 
I  have  sipped  the  blooming  beaker  (in  the 

ages  long  ago !) . 

Oh!   the   bloom  along  the  hill-side,  shining 

bright  among  the  trees, 
When  the  banners  of  the  autumn  are  flung 

out  to  every  breeze, 


88  Bloom 

How  it  blazes — how  it  sparkles,   and  then 

shivers  at  a  breath: 
What  is  it  when  all  is  spoken  but  the  awful 

bloom  of  death! 

Oh!  I  've  watched  the  rose's  petals,  and  be- 
held the  summer  sun 

Dipping  down  behind  Olympus,  when  the 
great  day's  work  was  done; 

But  to-day  I  'm  weary,  weary,  and  the 
bloom  I  long  to  see, 

Is  the  bloom  upon  the  cobalt — that 's  the 
only  bloom  for  me. 


THE  BOY  FROM  CALABOGIE 

HE  was  twenty-one  in  April — forty  inches 
round  the  chest, 
A  soopler  or  a  better  boy  we  '11  never  see 

again— 
And  the  way  we  cheered  the  lad  when  he 

started  for  the  West! 

The   town  was  like  a  holiday,   the   time 
he  took  the  train 

At  Calabogie. 

"Are  ye  ever  comin'  back  with  the  fortune, 

little  Dan, 
From  the  place  they  say  the  money  's  like 

the  leaves  upon  the  tree?" 
"If  the  minin'  boss  '11  let  me,  as  sure  as  I  'm 

a  man, 

The  mother's  Christmas  turkey  won't  have 
to  wait  for  me 

At  Calabogie." 

And  the  letters  he  was  writin'  to  his  mother 

•    from  the  West, 

Sure  ev'rybody  read  them,  and  who  could 
see  the  harm? 


90       The  Boy  from  Calabogie 

Tellin'  how  he  'd  keep  the  promise  to  come 

home  and  have  a  rest; 
And   the   money   that  was   in   them  was 
enough  to  buy  a  farm 
At  Calabogie. 

What  is  it  that  makes  the  fever  leave  the 

weak  and  kill  the  strong, 
And  who  'd  'a'  thought  our  Dannie  would 

ever  come  to  this  ? 
When  the  Sister  had  to  raise  him,  and  say, 

"It  won't  be  long 

Till  it  's  home,  my  lad,  you  're  goin'  to 
receive  a  mother's  kiss 
At  Calabogie." 

So  we  met  our  little  Dannie,  Christmas  morn- 
ing at  the  train, 
And  we  lifted  up  the  long-box  without  a 

word  to  say; 
Och !  such  a  boy  as  Dannie  we  '11  never  see 

again, 

God  forgive  us!  't  wasn't  much  of  a  Merry 
Christmas  Day 

At  Calabogie! 


THE  CALCITE  VEIN 

(A  Tale  of  Cobalt) 

I  USED  to  be  leevin'  on  Bonami, 
Fines'  place  on  de  lake,  you  bet! 
An'  dough  I  go  off  only  wance  sapree! 

I  t'ink  I  will  leev'  dere  yet; 
Wit'  tree  growin'  down  to  de  water  side, 

Were  leetle  bird  dance  an'  sing — 
Only  come  an*  see  you  don't  shout  wit  me 
Hooraw  for  Temiskaming ! 

But  silver  "boom"  an'  de  cobalt  bloom, 

Play  de  devil  wit'  Bonami, 
So  off  on  de  wood  we  all  mus'  go, 

Leavin'  de  familee — 
Shovel  an'  pick,  hammer  an'  drill, 

We  carry  dem  ev'ryw'ere, 
For  workin'  away  all  night  an'  day 

Till  it 's  tarn  to  be  millionaire. 

So  it  ain't  very  long  w'en  I  mak'  de  strike, 
Wat  dey  're  callin'  de  vein  cal-cite, 

Quarter  an  inch,  jus'  a  leetle  "pinch," 
But  she  is  come  all  right 


92  The  Calcite  Vein 

An'  widen  out  beeg:  mebbe  wan  sixteen, 

An'  now  we  have  got  her  sure ; 
So  we  jump  on  our  hat  w'en  she  go  like  dat, 

Me  an'  Bateese  Couture! 

Early  in  de  spring  we  see  dat  vein, 

W'en  de  pat-ridge  begin  to  drum, 
De  leaf  on  de  bush  start  in  wit'  a  rush, 

An'  de  skeeter  commence  to  come — 
Very  nice  time  on  d3  wood  for  sure, 

If  you  want  to  be  goin'  die, 
Skeeter  at  night  till  it 's  come  daylight, 

An'  affer  dat,  small  black  fly! 

Couple  o'  gang  like  dat,  ma  frien', 

'Specially  near  de  swamp, 
An'  hongry  too,  dey  can  bite  an'  chew, 

An'  keep  you  upon  de  jomp ; 
But  never  you  min',  only  work  away 

So  long  as  de  vein  is  dere, 
For  a  t'ing  so  small  don't  count  at  all, 

If  you  want  to  be  millionaire! 

"An'  dis  is  de  price,"  Bateese  he  say, 
"Tree  million  or  not'ing  at  all." 

An'  I  say,  "You  're  crazy,  it  's  five  you  mean, 
An'  more  if  you  wait  till  fall. 


9*  The  CaK  in 

An'  widen  out  beeg:  rnebbe  wan  sixteen, 

An'  now  we  have  got  her  sure  ; 
So  we  jump  on  our  hat  w'en  she  go  like  dat, 

Me  an   Bateese  Couture! 

Early  in  de  spring  we  see  dat  vein, 
W'en  de  pat-ridge  begin  to  drum, 

I  it-  leaf  on  de  bush  start  in  wit'  a  rush, 
An'  de  skeeter  commence  to  come— 

Very  nice  time  on  d?  wood  for  sure, 
~  If  you  wrant  to  be  goiii'  die, 


An'  affer  dat,  small  bkZ»r  (Mate  Vein. 

From  a  drawing  by  Frederick  Simpion  Cfliurti. 

iVnjple  o'  gang  like  dat,  ma  f'rieii'. 

'Specially  near  de  swamp, 
An'  hongry  too,  dey  car  sew, 

An'  keep  you  upor. 
But  never  you  min',  <•:  >y 

So  long  as  de  vein 
For  a  t'ing  so  small  d-  ill, 

If  you  want  to  be 

"An*  dis  is  de  price,"  Bateese  he  say, 
"Tree  million  or  not'ing  at  all." 

An'  I  say,  "You  're  crazy,  it  's  five  you  mean, 
An'  more  if  vou  wait  till  fall. 


The  Calcite  Vein  93 

An'  spose  de  silver  was  come  along, 
An'  cobalt  she  bloom  an'  bloom, 

We  look  very  sick  if  we  sole  too  quick, 
An'  ev'ryt'ing  's  on  de  boom. 

De  cash  we  refuse  w'en  dey  hear  de  news — 

Wen  I  t'ink  of  dat  cash  to-day, 
I  feel  like  a  mouse  on  a  great  beeg  house, 

W'en  de  familee  move  away : 
One  million,  two  million,  no  use  to  us, 

Me  an'  Bateese  Couture, 
So  we  work  away  ev'ry  night  an'  day, 

De  sam'  we  was  alway  poor. 

An'  den  one  morning  a  stranger  man, 

A  man  wit'  hees  hair  all  w'ite, 
Look  very  wise,  an'  he  's  moche  surprise 

W'en  he  's  seein'  dat  vein  cal-cite. 
An'  he  say,   "Ma  frien',  for  de  good  advice 

I  hope  you  '11  mak'  some  room — 
From  sweetheart  girl  to  de  wide,  wide  worl', 

Ketch  ev'ryt'ing  on  de  bloom. 

"Keep  your  eye  on  de  vein,  for  dere  's  many 
a  slip 

Till  you  drink  of  de  silver  cup, 
An'  if  you  're  not  goin'  to  go  'way  down, 

You  're  goin'  to  go  'way,  'way  up." 


94  The  Calcite  Vein 

"Now  w'at  does  he  mean?"  Bateese  he  say, 

Affer  de  ole  man  lef , 
"Mebbe  want  to  buy,  but  he  t'ink  it  's  high, 

So  we  '11  finish  de  job  ourse'f. 
Purty  quick  too."     An'  den  hooraw! 

We  form  it  de  compagnie, 
An'  to  give  dem  a  sight  on  de  vein  cal-cite, 

We  work  it  on  Bonami. 


Can't  count  de  money  dat  's  comin'  in, 

Same  as  de  lotterie; 
Ev'ry  wan  try,  till  birrieby 

Dere  's  not  many  dollar  on  Bonami ; 
An'  de  gang  we  put  onto  de  job  right  off, 

Nearly  twenty  beside  de  cook, 
Hammer  an'  drill  till  dey  're  nearly  kill, 

An'  feller  to  watch  de  book. 


Too  many  man,  an'  I  see  it  now, 

An'  I  'm  sorry,  'cos  I  'm  de  boss ; 
For  walkin'  aroun'  all  over  de  groun', 

Dat  's  reason  de  vein  get  los'. 
Easy  enough  wit'  de  lantern  too, 

Seein'  dat  vein  las'  night, 
But  to-day  I  'm  out  lookin'  all  about, 

An'  w'ere  is  dat  vein  cal-cite? 


The  Calcite  Vein  95 

Very  curious  t'ing,  but  you  can't  blame  me, 

For  I  try  very  hard,  I  'm  sure, 
Helpin'  dem  all  till  de  vein  is  gone, 

Me  an'  Bateese  Couture ; 
So  of  course  I  wonder  de  way  she  go, 

An'  twenty  cent  too  a  share, 
An'  I  can't  understan'  dat  stranger  man 

Wat  he  mean  w'en  he  's  sayin'  dere: 

Keep  your  eye  on  de  vein,  for  there  's  many 

a  slip 

Till  you  drink  of  de  silver  cup, 
An'  if  you  're  not  goin'  to  go  'way  down 
You  're  goin'  to  go  'way,  'way  up." 


PIERRE  LEBLANC 

(Dedicated  to  the  Hon.  Peter  White) 

EVRY  State  upon    de   Union,  w'en  dey 
write  her  up  to-day, 
Have  so  many  kin'  of  story  not  many  under- 

stan' ; 
But  if  you  lissen  me  you  can  very  quickly 

see 
How  it 's  easy  t'ing  remember  de  State  of 

Michigan. 
An'  me  I  know  it 's  true,  'cos  ma  fader  tole 

me  so, 
How  dat  voyageur  dey  're  callin'  Pere  Mar- 

quette 
Come  a-sailin'  hees  canoe,  wit'  de  Injun  from 

de  Soo, 
On  de  year  so  long  ago  dat  I  forget. 

But  wan  t'ing  I  can  say,  w'en  Marquette  is 
reach  de  shore 

Were  w'at  you  call  hees  statue  is  stickin' 
up  to-day, 

Dere  's  a  leetle  French  boy  dere  say,  "Com- 
ment ga  va,  mon  pere, 

Q6 


Pierre  Leblanc  97 

You  been  so  long  a-comin'   I  hope  you  're 

goin'  to  stay?" 
An'  he  show  heem  safes'  place  w'ere  he  put 

hees  birch  canoe, 

An'  de  way  he  talk  an'  boss  de  Injun  man- 
Wall,  it  's  very  easy  see  dat  between  you'se'f 

an'  me, 
Dat  lee  tie  feller's  born  to  comman'. 

An'   Marquette  he  's  moche   surprise  at  de 

smart  boy  he  has  got, 
W'ere  he  come  from,  w'at  's  hees  name,  an' 

ev'ryt'ing; 
But  de  boy  he  go  ahead  feexin'  up  de  camp 

an'  bed, 
For  he  alway  treat  hees  frien'  jus'  lak  de 

King. 
Marquette   he   den   fin'    out   w'at   de   lee  tie 

feller  know, 
An'   w'at   he   never  see,   an'   all   de   Grosse 

Point  law; 
How  it  's  mixit  up  so   moche    ev'rybody  's 

scare  to  touch, 
An'  de  nam'  he  call  hese'f  is  Pierre  Leblanc. 

Wall,   Marquette  he  's  not  a  fool,   so  he  's 

sayin'  "Au  revoir," 
For  leetle  Pierre  Leblanc  's  too  wide  awake. 


98  Pierre  Leblanc 

No  chance  disco veree,  so  far  as  he  can  see, 
Less  he  fin'  some  newer  place  upon  de  lak'. 
So  dere  he  stay  upon  de  shore,  de  lee  tie 

Pierre, 

An'  buil'  de  fines'  log  house  he  can  get; 
Purty  soon  he  have  a  town  on  de  place  he 

settle  down, 
An'  call  it  for  hees  frien'  M'sieu  Marquette. 


But  de  folk  he  's  bringin'  dere  fin'  it  hard 

w'en  wrinter  come 

An'  ev'ry  place  is  pilin'  wit'  de  snow; 
Den  who  is  volunteer  bring-  de  letter  'way 

up  here, 

From  de  contree  lyin'  off  dere  down  belowr  ? 
Was  it  feller  six  foot  high  is  on  de  job, 
Carry  letter  all  de  way  from  Canadaw, 
Wit'    hees     fourteen-dog-traineau,     bangin' 

t'roo  de  ice  an'  snow? 
Nosiree!     It  's  only  leetle  Pierre  Leblanc. 


But  de  way  he  treat  hees  dog  dey  say  is  very 

bad, 

Many  folk  is  talkin'  all  about  it  yet. 
So   of   course   dey  're    comin'    back   lak   de 

racer  on  de  track, ' 


Pierre  Leblanc  99 

For    hees    dog,    dey   don't    get   not'ing   till 

dey  're  passin'  on  Marquette. 
Wall,  I  s'pose  he  's  very  poor,  Pierre  Leblanc, 
An'  de  pay  he  's  gettin'  for  it  's  purty  small, 
An'  he  got  to  eat  hese'f,  or  mebbe  he  was  lef, 
So  we  never  get  our  letter  affer  all. 

An'  den  he  start  to  grow,  an'  de  way  he  work, 

dey  say, 

For  de  folk  on  ole  Marquette  an'  all  aroun', 
}.lak'    heem   very  populaire   on   de   contree 

ev'ryw'ere, 

Till  he  t'ink  he  was  de  beeges'  man  in  town. 
Den  hees  head  begin  to  swell,   'cos  ma  fader 

tole  me  so, 
An'  firse  t'ing  he  was  puttin'  on  de   beeges' 

style  he  can; 
But  he  ought  to  be  ashame  for  de  way  he 

change  hees  name 
To   Peter  White,   an'   try  to  pass  for  only 

Yankee  man. 

Mebbe  leetle   Injun  too,   can't  say  for  dat 

mese'f, 

For  he  alway  spik  sauvage  de  sam'  as  Ojibway 
An'  w'en  he  want  to  swear  it  's  enough  to 

raise  de  hair 


ioo  Pierre  Leblanc 

To  hear  heem  sayin'  ' '  Wabigoon  ah — goozah 

— goozah — gay. " 
An'  lak'  de  Injun,  too,  very  hard  to  tell  hees 

age, 
For  he  mus'   be  over  honder,   dough  he  's 

lookin'  forty  year; 
An'  he  's  alway  on  de  rush,  you  can't  lose 

heem  on  de  bush, 
An'  hees  eye  is  lak  de  eagle,  strong  an'  clear. 

An'  he  's  leevin'  wit'  us  now,  Pierre  Leblanc 

dit  Peter  White, 
But  we  won't  say  not'ing  more  about  hees 

name; 
Let  heem  try  it  if  he  can,  makin'  out  he  's 

Yankee  man, 
But   never   min',    for    Pierre    Leblanc   he  's 

good  man  jus'  de  sam'. 
So  if  you  want  to  know  de  State  of  Michigan, 
Very  easy  to  remember — in  case  you  might 

forget — 
Only  two  man  mak'  her  go,   'cos  ma  fader 

tole  me  so, 
An'  wan  is  M'sieu  Pierre  Leblanc,  de  oder 

Pere  Marque  tte. 


T 


HE  bleak  wind  sighs  thro'   the  leafless 

trees 

Like  a  spirit's  wail,  and  the    white  snow- 
flake 

Drifts  silently  down  with  the  fitful  breeze, 
On  the  lonely  camp  at  Silver  Lake. 

Yet  the  ruddy  glow  of  our  camp-fire  bright, 
Not  long  ago,  when  the  fall  was  young, 

Illumined  the  gathering  shades  of  night, 
And  the   forest  rang  with    the    songs  we 
sung. 

But  the  song  is  hushed,  and  the  merry  jest 
Is  heard  no  more,  when  the  shadows  fall; 

For  gone  is  each  well-remembered  guest, 
And  the  snow  like  a  mantle  covereth  all. 

Full  oft,  while  the  bright  September  moon 
Beamed    down,    did    the    startled    camp 
awake 

101 


102 


Silver  Lake  Camp 


From  its  slumbers  deep,  as  the  wizard  loon 
Pealed  its  wild  cry  from  the  neighbour- 
ing lake. 

% 
But  the  loon  has  taken  his  airy  flight, 

And  far  away  neath  the  southern  cloud 
He  rests  his  wings,  while  the  Frost  King's 

might, 
Has  wrapped  the  lake  in  an  icy  shroud. 

No  longer  our  light  bark  ploughs  the  wave, 
No  longer  we  tempt  the  treacherous  flood, 

No  sentinels  watch  o'er  the  old  camp,  save 
The  guardian  genii  of  the  wood. 


THE  TALE  OF  A  COCKTAIL 

DEAR  MR.  EDITOR, 

It  has  always  been  my  camping  experience  that  the 
oldest  among  us,  especially  if  he  be  a  grey-haired  pa- 
triarch, is  invariably  the  greatest  "alcoholic  tempter" 
of  the  party.  He  it  is  who  generally  paralyses  the 
energies  of  his  more  youthful  brethren  with  the  ma- 
tutinal cocktail;  hence  my  "  Tale  of  a  Cocktail  " : 

THE  Patriarch  rose  at  the  break  of  day, 
Ere  the  mists  from  the  mountain  had 

fled  away, 
And  loudly  his  merry  roundelay, 

Rang  over  hill  and  vale: 
"Spirit  of  morn,  we  greet  thee! 
Gladly  we  rise  to  meet  thee, 
Difficult  't  is  to  beat  thee, 

Matutinal  Cocktail!" 

A  shudder  ran  thro'  the  listening  throng, 
For  many  a  time  we  had  heard  that  song, 
And  feared,  alas!  he  was  making  it  strong, 

This  sour  cocktail. 

But  the  sage  went  on  with  his  morning  lay, 
And  no  man  dared  to  utter  nay— 
Ah!  little  recked  he  what  we  might  say, 

This  Patriarch  hale. 
103 


104       The  Tale  of  a  Cocktail 

Thus  he  spake  with  deep  emotion: 
"Trust  me,  't  is  a  soo.thing  potion, 

For  your  stomach's  sake; 
To  reject  what  heaven  has  sent  us 
Is  to  be  non  compos  mentis — 
How  much  aqua  bullientis 

Will  you   take?" 

We  fell  on  our  knees  with  despairing  cry, 
And  prayed  that  for  once  he  would  pass  us 

by, 

For   we   felt   that   should   we   that  cocktail 
try, 

'T  would  be  our  ruin. 

King  Canute,  't  is  written  on  history's  page, 
Endeavoured  the  billows  wild  to  cage — 
'T  were  easier  task  than  restrain  the  Sage, 

Who  still  kept  brewin'. 

While,  his  happy  gladsome  singing, 
Set  the  hills  and  valleys  ringing, 
We  were  kept  "ingredients"  bringing, 

Much  against  our  will : 
Lagavulin,  Angostura, . 
Which  he  told  us  would  ensure  a 
Sound  digestion,  also  cure  a 

Sudden  cold,  or  stop  a  chill. 


The  Tale  of  a  Cocktail        105 

The  hills  re-echoed  our  solemn  chant, 

"Te  morituri  salutant; 

Grant  us  some  mercy,  however  scant, 

This  awful  hour!" 

But  sterner  and  colder  his  visage  grew, 
No  pity,  alas!  the  Patriarch  knew; 
Hope  shrieking  fled  as  we  watched  him  brew 

His  cocktail  sour. 


"Let  none  escape,"  was  his  dire  command, 
"For  I  swear  to-day,  by  my  good  right  hand, 
That  all  who  refuse  their  cocktail  stand 

On  death's  cold  brink." 
The  Patriarch's  awful  accents  fell 
On  our  frightened  ears  like  a  funeral  knell, 
So  bidding,  each  other  a  last  farewell, 

We  took  our  drink. 


The  lusty  salmon  in  vain  may  "rise, " 
The  merry  troutlets  may  gaily  play, 
But  the  green,  green  sward  where  our  white 

tent  lies 

Is  good  enough  for  us  to-day. 
For  we  're  tired — so  tired — and  weary  too, 
As  we  sink  into  dreamy  reverie, 
And  we  feel  that  our  dreams  are  not  all  true, 


io6       The  Tale  of  a  Cocktail 

The  world  is  n't  just  what  it  seems  to  be. 
*  *  *  * 

The  tides  may  ebb,  and  the  tides  may  flow, 
And  the  river  gleam  in  the  valley  below, 
But  never  again  shall  we  fishing  go, 

Till  the  Sage's  hour 

Has  come, — and  he  goes  to  the  golden  shore, 
Where   we   trust   he  '11   be   happy  for  ever 

more, 
But  we  fear  he  may  meet  us  at  the  door 

With  a  cocktail  sour! 


THE  LAND  WE  LIVE  IN  AND  THE 
LAND  WE  LEFT 

Written  for  the  menu  of  the  Irish  Protestant  Be- 
nevolent Society's  annual  dinner.     March  18,  1895. 

THE  children  of  the  Western  Gael 
Are  gathered  here  this  Patrick's  night, 
To  pledge  the  dear  old  Innisfail, 
To  drink  her  health  in  bumpers  bright. 
'T  is  true  we  may  not  see  her  more, 
Still  we  're  not  likely  to  forget, 
And  though  we  've  sought  another  shore, 
We  're  Irish  yet!     We  're  Irish  yet! 


107 


YOU  see  I  was  there  on  the  run-way, 
Just  near  where  it  enters  the  lake, 
Could  n't  get  better  place  if  I  tried  it, 
For  the  deer  would  be  certain  to  take 
To  the  water  the  moment  he  saw  it, 
And  then  I  could  pump  in  the  lead 
At  ten  or  a  dozen  yards  distance, 
Till  I  could  n't  help  killing  him  dead. 
(Oh!  't  was  great  sport!) 


(And  the  excitement!) 

There  I  sat  watching  and  waiting, 

For  maybe  an  hour  or  two, 

I  could  hear  my  poor  heart  go 

a-throbbing, 

And  once,  when  a  chipmunk  drew 
Near  to  my  trembling  ambush, 
I  had  almost  pulled  trigger,  when 
He  ran  up  a  silver  birch  tree, 
And  I  saw  't  was  a  chipmunk  then. 
(But  't  was  great  !) 
1  08 


Deer-Hunting  109 

I  could  see  the  bright  leaves  of  the  autumn, 
Sprinkling  the  forest  floor, 
Each  leaf  all  bespattered  with  crimson, 
As  if  dipt  in  the  blood  of  more 
Than  a  thousand  innocent  victims. 
But,  pshaw!  't  was  the  frost  and  rain, 
So  I  said  to  myself,  "Old  fellow, 
Brace  up!     Be  a  man  again!" 
(And  I  braced.) 


Then  suddenly,  over  the  hill-side, 
Where  the  hounds  killed  a  fawn  last  year, 
An  echo  kept  ringing,  ringing, 
'T  was  the  baying  of  "Chanticleer." 
"He  's  got  him  at  last,"  I  murmur, 
"And  the  old  dog  will  make  him  jump," 
So  my  hold  on  the  rifle  tightened, 
While  my  heart  went  thumpity- thump. 


(Holy  murder!) 

Here  he  comes  down  the  pathway, 
Good  Lord!  how  he  must  have  run! 
But  with  "Chanty"  let  out  on  the  home- 
stretch, 
Don't  suppose  he  enjoyed  the  fun, 


no  Deer-Hunting 

Hardly  able  to  bring  his  legs  with  him. 
Well!  don't  get  excited  yet! 
Just  wait  till  he  reaches  the  water, 
Then  fill  him  before  he  gets  wet. 

Keep  still !    Why !    I  can  hear  him  breathing, 
And  now  he  has  passed  so  close, 
The  point  of  the  rifle  could  touch  him, 
And  easily  give  him  a  dose. 
Just  see  how  he  jumped  when  he  smelt  me, 
And  look  how  he  struggles  and  pants, 
But  I  '11  wait  till  he  gets  to  the  water, 
And  give  the  poor  devil  a  chance, 
(That  's  right,  is  n't  it?) 

And  now  he  has  entered  the  water, 
And  when  he  has  gone  ten  yards  or  so, 
I  bang  away,  bang!  with  the  Marlin 
Till  I  find  I  've  killed  a  doe. 
But  a  nice  little  doe  I  can  tell  you, 
Is  better  than  nothing  at  all, 
So  if  Providence  only  spares  me, 
I  '11  try  it  again  next  fall. 
(D.  V.) 


"HE  ONLY  WORE  A  SHAMROCK "i 

HE  only  wore  a  shamrock 
On  his  faithful  Irish  breast, 
Maybe  a  gift  from  his  colleen  oge, 
The  maiden  whom  he  loved  best ; 
But  the  emblem  of  dear  old  Ireland, 
Tho'  worn  on  a  jacket  of  red, 
Was  the  emblem  of  rank  disloyalty, 
And  treason  most  foul,  they  said. 

Had  he  but  borne  the  heather, 

That  grows  on  the  Scottish  hills, 

A  rose  from  an  English  garden, 

Or  a  leek  from  the  Cambrian  rills, 

Then  he  might  summon  his  comrades, 

With  trumpet,  and  fife,  and  drum, 

And  march  through  the  breadth  of  England, 

Till  trumpet  and  fife  were  dumb. 

But  he  only  wore  a  shamrock, 

And  tho'  Britain's  most  gracious  Queen 

Had  pinned  her  cross  on  his  bosom, 

1  Heading  Montreal  Gazette,  March  18,  1894. 

"Private  O'Grady,  87th  Regt.,  for  wearing  a  sham- 
rock in  his  buttonhole  Patrick's  Day,  was  court- 
martialled." 


ii2   "He  only  Wore  a  Shamrock" 

Yet  the  little  trefoil  of  green 
Might  not  nestle  down  beside  it, 
For  the  colour,  alas!  was  banned, 
And  the  Celtic  soldier  was  made  to  feel 
That  he  trod  an  alien  land. 

Oh!  poor  little  modest  symbol, 
Of  the  glorious  Trinity, 
Rather  bloom  on  your  native  hill-side, 
Than  cross  the  dark  Irish  sea; 
Rather  rest  on  the  loving  bosom, 
Of  the  Mother  that  gave  you  birth, 
For  even  your  virtues  can't  chasten 
The  ungrateful  English  earth. 


THE  GODBOUT 

OH!  pilgrim  from  the  Godbout's  shore 
Where  broad  Atlantic  billows  .roll, 
Speak!  hast  thou  seen  the  Commodore, 
Whose  brave  unconquerable  soul, 
Athirst  for  wilder,  fiercer  game 
Than  haunt  the  calm  Laurentian  streams, 
Burned  to  achieve  a  greater  fame, 
And  realise  his  fondest  dreams? 
Speak!  hast  thou  seen  his  grizzled  locks, 
By  ocean's  vagrant  breezes  fanned, 
Where  Weymahegan's  giant  rocks 
Keep  watch  and  ward   o'er  sea  and  land? 
Hast  seen  him  where  the  currents  lave 
Fair  Mistassini's  silver  shore, 
On  river — sea — by  land  or  wave, 
Speak!  hast  thou  seen  the  Commodore? 
The  pilgrim  spoke — while  down  his  cheek 
The  salt,  salt  tears  coursed  grievously: 

"Good  Sir,  I  feeble  am  and  weak, 
Yet  I  my  tale  may  tell  to  thee— 
I  saw  the  veteran's  wasted  form, 
That  form  we  used  to  mark  with  pride, 
Lie  prostrate  mid  the  wrack  and  storm 
Of  Weymahegan's  awful  tide. 

8  "3 


n4  The  Godbout 

Small  strength,  alack !  of  wind  or  limb 

Had  he  upon  that  fearful  day; 

But,  tho'  his  eagle  eye  was  dim, 

He  still  gazed  o'er  the  hills  where  lay 

The  Laurentides,  where  he  had  spent 

So  many  happy,  happy  hours, 

Safe  from  the  storms  of  life,  content 

Amid  the  Peche's  tranquil  bowers. 

'T  was  thus  he  spoke :  '  Oh !  why  was  I 

By  youthful  traveller's  tale  beguiled 

To  quit  the  pleasant  Peche  and  die 

In  this  inhospitable  wild? 

What  lured  me  on  to  cast  aside 

The  simple  pleasures  of  my  youth, 

Until  I  longed  for  Godbout's  tide— 

And  cared  no  more  for  trout,  forsooth! 

Oh!  rash  was  I  to  lend  an  ear, 

To  all  the  legends  of  the  sea, 

To  bring  my  faithful  legion  here— 

Does  this  reward  their  constancy? 

I -cannot  say,  but  this  I  know, 

That  should  I  view  the  Peche  again, 

Could  I  but  see  its  waters  flow, 

I  'd  be  the  humblest  of  the  train 

That  worships  there ;  no  more  I  'd  roam 

In  search  of  other  piscine  fields; 

Contented  with  my  humble  home, 

With  all  that  old  Laurentian  yields, 


The  Godbout  115 

I  'd  gladly  live  and  cheerful  die.' 

But  here  his  accents  'gan  to  sink; 

He  thought  his  hour  had  come,  till  I 

Administered  a  generous  drink. 

The  Veteran  gasped,  but  when  the  flask 

He  saw — tho'  feeble  as  a  child — 

Bravely  essayed  the  pleasant  task 

Of  trying  to  empty  it,  and  smiled. 

Yes,  tho'  he  'd  almost  passed  away 

In  one  brief  moment  from  bur  ken — 

Yet  wondrous  't  was  to  see  that  day 

His  rapturous  look,  as  he  smiled  again. 

New  strength  came  back  to  the  wasted  limbs, 

The  roses  bloomed  in  his  cheek  once  more, 

And   the   sound   of   our   glad    thanksgiving 

hymns 

Rang  out  o'er  Weymahegan's  shore; 
He  prayed  us  to  pardon  his  misdeeds, 
He  wept  when  the  legion  embraced  his  neck, 
And  swore  by  the  sacred  Laurentides, 
He  'd  never  more  venture  below  Quebec. 
So  gently  we  bore  the  repentant  Chief, 
Tenderly  placed  him  that  awful  day 
On  board  of  the  gallant  ship  Relief 
And  swiftly  to  westward  sailed  away. " 

The  Pilgrim  ceased — his  mournful  task 
Was  ended  at  last,  and  all  was  well — 


n6  The  Godbout 

Then  raised  to  his  lips  the  magic  flask, 
And  silently  bade  me  a  last  farewell. 


Joy!     Joy  at    the    Peche  —  let    the    cariboo 

dance, 

Let  the  fatted  oxen  at  last  be  slain, 
Let  the  men  get  full,  and  the  bull  moose 

prance, 
For  the  Commodore  has  come  home  again  ! 


OONSIDE 


TO  me,  whose  paddle-blade  has  cleft 
The   wave  where  great    St.   Lawrence 
flows — 

To  me,  whose  ears  have  heard  the  scream 
Of  eagle,  high  above  the  snows, 
Where  Fraser  darts  among  the  hills — 
What  is  this  tiny  stream  to  me? 
And  what  the  little  melody 
My  soul  with  rapture  fills, 
Like  some  old  half-forgotten  croon? 
A  cradle  song  of  long  ago — 
A  mother's  song  so  sweet  and  low — 
Hush!     It  is  the  Doon! 


117 


THE  SPANISH  BIRD  * 

TELL  me,  O  bird  from  the  land  of  the  Cid 
Why  do  thy  tail  feathers  droop  so  low; 
Why  art  thou  mute  that  was  wont  to  bid 
Fiercest  defiance  to  every  foe? 

No  longer  thy  clarion  voice  rings  out, 
Pealing  like  thunder  from  earth  to  sky, 

Waking  the  Peche  with  thy  joyous  shout, 
Till  rival  roosters  were  forced  to  fly. 

The  Rooster  Loquacious. 

"Once  I  was  youthful  and  passing  fair, 
Captured  first  prizes  at  many  a  show, 

Could  lick  all  the  birds  ever  flew  in  air, 
And  beat  record  time  on  the  heel  and  toe. 

Proud  was  I  then  of  my  martial  past, 
Vain  was  I  too  of  my  gay  topknot, 

Successful  in  war  and  skilled  in  court, 
Gallinaceous  beauties  my  favours  sought. 

1  From    Songs    of    Old    Spain,    by    the    author    of 
Hispaniola,  or  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Rooster. 
1.8 


The  Spanish  Bird 


119 


But  family  cares  when  I  settled  down 

Made  the  gallant  topknot  droop  day  by 

day, 

The  white  wings   faded — my  ruddy  crown 
Disappeared,  till  those  charms  had  all  fled 
away. 

Pardon  these  tears,  by  emotion  stirred, 
But  keenest  sorrow  of  all  to  know 

Is  that  once  I  was  known  as  the  "sacred 

bird," 
And  now  they  call  me  "sacre  oiseau!" 


"*-W      T=*3feteT:..St-  -    -~ 


WAY  back  on  de  woods  I  know  a  man, 
Was  very  good  hunter  too; 
No  bodder  at  all  to  understan' 

De  moose  an'  de  cariboo. 
An'  wedder  you  're  meetin'  heem  on  de  bush, 

Or  trampin'  de  hills  aroun', 
You  always  t'ink  he  was  sayin',  "Hush!" 
For  he  never  mak'  de  soun'. 

De  fox  w'en  he  's  seein'  dat  hunter's  track 

Jus'  shiver  hese'f  an'  go, 
An'  say,  "De  noise  dat  hunter  mak' 

Is  de  noise  of  de  fallin'  snow— 
Don't  geev  me  a  chance,  an'  dat 's  de  way 

I  pity  de  poor  ole  bear, 
Never  hear  not'ing  on  stormy  day, 

W'en  danger  is  ev'ry  w'ere. " 

Is  dere  an  otter  along  de  creek, 

Or  mink  on  de  beeg  savanne, 
Don't  jomp  on  de  water  purty  quick 

W'en  he  's  hearin'  dat  hunter  man? 

120 


Boule  121 

Now!  an'  w'at  's  de  reason  he  get  so  cute, 
Till  hees  luck  is  de  devil's  own? 

Wall!  it  's  only  becos'  w'en  he  mak'  de  shoot, 
He  travel  aroun'  alone. 

But  ev'ry  t'ing  change,  an'  so  I  'm  tole, 

Affer  a  long,  long  tarn, 
De  hunter  man  change,  for  he  's  comin'  ole, 

Dough  he  tell  us  he  's  jus'  de  sam' ; 
An'  bimeby  w'en  he  's  sittin'  dere 

Wan  day  on  a  tamarac  log, 
He  say  to  hese'f,  "I  wonder  w'ere 

I  can  get  me  a  leetle  dog? 

''Nice  leetle  dog  wit'  stan'-up  tail, 

Follow  me  t'roo  de  wood, 
Stick  to  me  close  along  de  trail, 

An'  me,  I  will  treat  heem  good: 
Train  heem  up  right,  an'  dere  won't  be  need 

Havin'  heem  play  de  fool." 
So  he  's  buyin'  a  dog — I  dunno  de  breed — 

An'  de  nex'  t'ing  he  call  heem  "Boule." 

So  he  train  dat  dog  till  he  's  nearly  dead, 

Or  wishin'  hese'f  in  jail — 
W  'en  to  lie  down,  never  show  hees  head, 

W  'en  he  can  wag  hees  tail ; 


122  Boule 

Show  heem  de  very  bes'  way  to  smell 
On  de  bush,  if  he  's  passin'  t'roo, 

An'  out  on  de  lake  he  can  do  so  well, 
He  never  upset  canoe. 

Wonderful  dog!  an'  now  an'  den, 

Affer  he  finish  up, 
He  's  takin'  heem  off  to  show  hees  frien' 

How  he  was  train  de  pup. 
"Come  along,  Boule,  kip  close  to  me, 

Steady,  an'  watch  de  groun', 
Wait  till  I  tell  you  go  an'  see 

If  anyt'ing's  lyin'  aroun'." 

An'  to  see  heem  walk,  dat  hunter  man, 

An'  to  hear  heem  talk  also: 
"Easy,  ma  frien',  de  bes'  you  can, 

Easy,  an'  nice  an'  slow. 
Dis  is  de  heart  of  de  game  countree, 

Partridge  on  ev'ry  log, 
Tranquillement !  for  de  leaf,  sapre"e, 

Was  never  so  dry — but  w'ere  's  de  dog? 

"Boule!  Boule!  Boule!  Boule!" 
(Den  he  would  raise  de  row!) 

"Boule!  Boule!  you  ole  fool— 
W'y  do  you  leave  me  now?" 


Boule  123 

'Way  on  de  right,  w'ere  de  bush  is  t'ick, 

Dere  's  a  rush,  an'  we  see  a  tail, 
Long  enough  too  to  mak'  us  sick, 

An'  a  cariboo  go  full  sail, 
Fly  in'  along  wit'  de  pup  behin', 

Yellin'  hees  head  off  sure — 
Maudit !  if  dat  dog  he  was  only  mine, 

I  very  soon  work  de  cure! 


Yass!  if  to-morrow  will  ketch  nex*  wick, 

Or  ma  gran'moder  ketch  de  moon, 
He  's  gettin'  some  chance  if  he  travel   quick 

For  ketchin'  heem  jus'  as  soon. 
An'  affer  he  's  scarin'  dat  cariboo, 

Back  he  was  come  encore, 
Lookin'  so  proud  of  de  job  he  do, 

An'  de  hunter  man  start  some  more. 


'  Careful  now — don't  mak'  a  noise,    •., 

Creep  on  your  han'  an'  knee ; 
Some  of  you  men  are  jus'  lak  boys 

Comin'  from  school — sapree. 
Don't  you  see  de  dog?  for  he  's  gone  again, 

Off  to  I  dunno  w'ere  "- 
An'  den  lak  a  rushin'  railway  train 

We  're  hearin'  a  beeg  moose  dere. 


124  Boule 

Tearin'  along  across  de  hill, 

Up  w'ere  de  pine  tree  grow, 
Poor  leetle  Boule  a'  follerin'  still, 

An'  hollerin'  as  he  go! 
Mebbe  de  hunter  's  not  gettin'  mad 

Wen  he  commence  to  say, 
"Sorry  I  be,  but  dere  's  somet'ing  bad 

Wrong  wit'   de  dog  to-day. 


"Boule!  Boule!  Boule!  Boule!" 

(Oh,  how  he  raise  de  row!) 
"Boule!  Boule!  you  ole  fool — 

Wy  do  you  leave  me  now?" 

"Very  fine  way  to  hunt  de  wood!" 

Dat  's  w'at  we  tell  heem  den; 
"Nice  leetle  dog" — it's  all  no  good," 

An'  he  say:  "I  dunno,  ma  frien', 
Mebbe  you  're  right — w'en  a  man  he  's    ole, 

Can*t  learn  heem  a  trick  is  new, 
An'  jus'  as  soon  as  de  dog  is  sole, 

I  '11  hunt  as  I  used  to  do." 

So  he  's  sellin'  hees  dog  on  Joe  Laflamme, 
Kip  de  toll  on  de  bridge  below, 

Never  have  dog  he  lak  de  sam', 
Dat  's  w'at  he  's  sayin',  Joe. 


Boule 


125 


Now  he  's  beginning  for  feelin'  well, 
Now  he  can  sleep  on  de  chair  all  day, 

For  Boule's  commencin'  to  mak'  a  yell 
W  'en  customer's  less  dan  a  mile  away. 

Dat  's  all  right — an'  de  hunter  man 
Travel  agen  as  he  used  to  do, 

All  alone,  an'  I  understan' 
Gettin'  de  ole  tarn  luck  also. 


CAUDA  MORRHUAE 

POOR  little  Tommy  Cod 
Took  his  best  fishing-rod, 
Cunningly  fashioned  of  split  bamboo; 
Likewise  his  tackle, 
Of  red  and  brown  hackle, 
To  venture  down  stream  in  his  bark  canoe. 

Tommy  had  registered, 

Solemnly,  I  have  heard, 

Promised  and  vowed,  that  ere  evening  fell. 

Dore  and  speckled  trout, 

Black  bass  and  bull-pout, 

Would  cheerfully  yield  to  his  magic  spell. 

Since  time  immemorial, 

In  things  piscatorial, 

Tho'  Magog  be  famed  among  knights  of  the 

rod; 

Yet,  making  due  limit 
For  what  may  be  in  it, 
Little  Tommy  might  know  it  was  no  plaice 

for   Cod. 

126 


Cauda  Morrhuae  127 

Now,  in  the  buoyant  sea, 

There  's  so  much  buoyancy 

A  Cod  if  he  wishes  can  easily  float; 

But  in  the  swift  Magog, 

Why,  even  a  bullfrog, 

Would  much  rudder  perch  on  the  side  of  a  boat. 

I  told  him  the  dangers 

That  all  who  are  strangers 

Might  meet  with,  in  case  they  should  venture 

below ; 

For  the  mill-dam  's  so  turbot 
No  mortal  can  curb  it, 
As  those  who  have  tried  it  must  certainly 

know. 

O  Tommy,  take  care  of 

Your  life  and  beware  of 

The  treacherous   mill-dam   you  shortly  shall 

view ! 

But  Tommy  was  vain  and 
He  quitted  the  mainland, 
And  put  out  to  sea  in  his  frail  canoe. 

The  craft  like  an  arrow 
Sped  down  the  long,  narrow, 
And  turbulent  channel,   where  wild  billows 
rave; 


128  Cauda  Morrhuae 

Then  past  Point  MacFarlane, 

Like  shot  from  a  martin, 

Poor  Tommy  swept  on  to  his  watery  grave. 

When  Tom  struck  the  mill-dam, 

The  mill-dam,  the  mill-dam, 

When  Tom  struck   the  mill-dam,  he  dam'd 

the  dam'd  mill; 
Why  should  he  strike  it, 
When  there  's  nothing  like  it 
To  test  all  the  best  of  a  mariner's  skill? 

I  saw  the  craft  flounder, 

As  fiercely  around  her 

The  hungry  waves  leapt  on  the  ill-fated  prey ; 

And  each  time  they  struck  her 

Poor  Cod  cried  for  sucker, 

But  sucker  was  scarce  on  that  terrible  day. 

To  throw  in  the  river 
Some  oil  of  cod  liver, 

And  thereby  the  grim  foaming  waters  becalm, 
Was  Tom's  next  endeavour, 
But  he  found  that  his  lever 
Was  all  out  of  order,  and  not  worth  a  dam 
(mill-dam) . 


Cauda  Morrhuae  1 29 

At  last  he  went  under, 

And,  faith!  'twas  no  wonder, 

For  a  Cod  should  n't    go   where  he  does  n't 

belong; 

"Requiescat  in  pace" 
I  murmur,  in  case  he 
Should  rise  and  object  to  this  mournful  song. 


We  found  him  next  morning — 

A  sorrowful  warning; 

The   short   line   we   chartered,    and   shipped 

him  by  rail 
To  distant  Atlantic, 
By  way  of  Megantic, 
And  so  I  've  arrived  at  the  end  of  my  tail. 


THE  MONTMORENCI  ELECTION 

WALL!  I  dunno  about  tolin'  you  dat 
story,  for  I  don't  t'ink  it 's  good  wan, 
an'  de  young  man  w'at  's  mak'  dat  funny 
beez-nesse,  dey  're  very  bad  young  man;  but 
if  I  don't  tole  you,  I  s'pose  you  go  off  mad, 
an'  of  course  dat 's  not  pleasan'  t'ing,  so 
hooraw,  away  she  go! 

Dere  was  beeg  election  on  county  Mont- 
morenci  some  year  ago,  an'  crowd  come  on 
de  church  door  ev'ry  Sunday  mornin'  for 
learn  all  'bout  how  de  habitant  mus'  mak' 
hees  vote  on  de  las'  day  an'  sam'  tarn'  please 
ev'ry  body;  but  long  before  dat,  dem  feller 
on  Kebeck  dey  want  to  know  if  de  Habitant 
on  our  place  was  go  en  bloc  for  de  Rouge, 
dat 's  de  Laurier  man,  or  for  de  Bleu,  dat  's 
de  Toppeur  [Tupper]  Conservateur.  An' 
it  's  not  easy  job  fin'  out,  for  de  habitant 
he  's  poor  man,  an'  don't  lak'  tole  ev'ry 
body  jus'  how  he  vote.  So  affer  some  talk 
133 


i34    The  Montmorenci  Election 

on  de  meeting  dat  's  call  for  want  to  know 
'bout  dem  habitant,  dere  was  young  fel- 
ler his  nam'  Ducharme  (maudit!  he  's  bad 
young  man!)  stan'  up  on  de  meeting  an'  say, 
"Look  at  me — here  I  am,  an'  I  bet  you  I  can 
go  on  dat  Montmorenci — yass  sir,  an'  two 
free  week  I  'm  back  on  Kebeck  wit'  all  de 
news  'bout  dem  habitant  on  de  contree: 
w'at  dey  say,  w'at  dey  t'ink,  an'  how  dey 
vote — an'  if  you  want  tak'  up  dat  bet, 
now  's  your  tarn',  yass  sir!"  Den  some  wise 
ole  man  was  on  de  meeting,  get  up  an'  say: 
"Young  feller,  we  got  plaintee  experience 
on  dat  beez-nesse  for  many  year,  an'  we 
know  dis,  w'en  de  stranger  go  roun'  'mong 
de  habitants  an'  say  he  's  Laurier,  de 
habitant  say,  '  Dat 's  me  too ' ;  an'  w'en 
he  say,  'I  'm  for  de  Bleu,'  de  habitant  say 
he  's  bleu  also.  Oh,  yass!  de  peep'  on  de 
contree  was  very  polite,  tak'  off  de  hat 
an'  so  on,  an'  alway  say,  'Oui,  oui, '  or 
'Non,  non, '  jus'  lak'  de  stranger  man,  an* 
you  t'ink  dey  're  all  right,  but  wait  till  she 
come  'lection  day.  Oh!  dat 's  difFren'  t'ing! 


The  Montmorenci  Election    135 

So,  young  man,  w'at  you  goin'  to  do  fin'  out 
how  de  cat  jomp  on  de  fence?" 

An'  de  young  man  say:  "Very  quick  I 
tole  you  how  de  cat  jomp  on  de  fence. 
Dere  's  no  use  goin'  dere  wit'  spring  suit,  lak' 
man  from  de  Unite  State.  I  feex  up  lak'  de 
beggar-man  on  church  door  roun'  de  cor- 
nerre — I  get  w'at  you  call  de  crutch,  too, 
wit'  rheumateez,  an'  some  bad  cole  on  de 
lung;  den  I  will  travel  for  ma  healt'  on 
Montmorenci;  affer  dat  you  will  see  me 
on  de  meeting  speciale  extraordinaire,  wit' 
full  report  on  de  politique  of  Montmorenci— 
dat  's  w'at  I  do;  an'  ma  frien'  Alphonse 
Beauchemin,  was  study  law  sam'  place  wit' 
me,  he  will  come  too,  an'  we  will  be  de  firse 
prize  beggar-man  double  team  on  de  contree." 

So  all  de  wise  ole  man  say,  "Dat 's  purty 
smart  t'ing,  we  never  t'ink  of  dat, — you  're 
goin'  to  be  great  lawyer  sure!" 

Wall!  off  dey  go,  dem  bad  young  men, 
along  de  road,  and  bimeby  pass  on  de  county 
of  Montmorenci.  If  dere  's  wan  place  on 
Canadaw,  w'ere  de  poor  hongry  man  stand 


136    The  Montmorenci  Election 

good  chance  for  somet'ing  to  eat,  dat  's  w'ere 
I  leev  on  Montmorenci,  an'  well  dem  young 
feller  know  dat.  So  w'en  dey  see  nice  house 
of  riche  habitant  on  de  roadside,  an'  it 's 
'bout  tarn'  for  milk  de  cow  on  de  evening, 
Ducharme  say:  "Alphonse,  I  go  dere  firse, 
me,  an'  you  can  sit  on  de  fence  leetle  w'ile 
for  geev  me  chance  get  all  right  wit'  de  ole 
man,  den  bimeby  you  can  pass  on  de  sam' 
place  an'  we  will  have  good  talk  'bout 
'lection."  All  right,  so  Ducharme  he  come 
along,  can  hardly  walk  at  all,  an'  rap  on  de 
door  wit'  hees  stick.  "Hello!  who  's  dere?" 
"It  's  me,  poor  man  from  Riviere  du  Loup, 
been  sick  all  winter  on  de  Hos-pee-tal 
Kebeck,  an'  doctor  he  say  can't  cure  me  no 
more,  so  out  I  go.  Mebbe  you  got  leetle 
somet'ing  for  eat  an'  place  on  de  barn  for 
sleep  to-night,  an'  1  pray  for  you  all  I  can?" 
An'  de  habitant  say,  "Come  in,  come  in," 
an'  tole  hees  wife  bring  some  black  bread, 
sirop  d'erable  [maple  syrup],  new  milk  an' 
fresh  onion,  dat  's  good  for  bad  cole  on  de 
lung,  an'  hooraw!  it 's  bully  tarn'  for  dat 


The  Montmorenci  Election    137 

maudit  Ducharme.  Den  affer  w'ile,  bimeby 
dere  's  anoder  rap  on  de  door  an'  in  come 
Alphonse,  1'autre  maudit  cochon,  an'  de  ole 
habitant  say,  "Wat's  dat?  some  more 
beggar-man  from  Riviere  du  Loup?"  An' 
down  he  sit  lak'  his  frien'  Ducharme,  an' 
have  de  good  tarn'  also,  an'  bote  dem  feller 
eat,  an'  talk  an'  smoke  lak'  dey  never  meet 
before;  an'  purty  soon  Ducharme  begin  to 
sing,  and  de  ole  habitant  and  hees  wife 
Azilda,  dey  sit  dere  lak'  two  fool,  an'  laugh 
an'  cry  an'  hoi'  each  oder  de  han',  jus'  de 
sam'  as  w'en  dey 're  boy  an'  girl  togedder. 
Oh!  dat  Ducharme,  he  have  no  heart  at  all, 
an'  mak'  de  good  lawyer  sure.  Wall!  by 
de  tarn'  de  lamp  he  's  lit,  ev'ryt'ing's  goin' 
firse-class,  an'  mebbe  ten  twelve  de  neighbour 
come  in  for  hear  de  story  an'  lissen  de 
song,  an'  affer  w'ile  Ducharme  commence 
talk  de  politique  wit'  Alphonse.  Oho!  dat 's 
w'en  de  fun  begin!  Ducharme  he  say, 
"Toppeur  was  de  mos'  bes'  man  for  de 
contree,  'cos  w'y,  he  wear  de  ole  bleu  over- 
coat of  John  A.  MacDonal',"  an'  Alphonse, 


138    The  Montmorenci  Election 

he  say:  "Non,  non,  Laurier  was  de  mos' 
bes'  man — he  's  Canayen  comme  nous  autres ; 
'sides  dat  he  tak'  de  job  run  de  Gouvernment 
for  t'ousan'  dollar  a  year,  an'  Toppeur  won't 
do  not'ing  less  dan  twelve  honder  dollar. 
So  w'at  you  t'ink  of  dat?"  An'  Beauchemin 
he  say:  "W'at  I  t'ink  of  dat?  I  tole  you 
purty  soon.  Dat  's  true,  Toppeur  he  ax 
twelve  honder  dollar,  but  he  only  kip  t'ou- 
san' dollar  hese'f,  an'  pay  de  res'  on  hees 
boy,  so  you  get  two  smart  man  work  hard 
for  twelve  honder  dollar,  an'  I  t'ink  dat 's 
better  trade  dan  t'ousan'  dollar  only  wan 
man.  'Sides  dat,  all  de  pries'  an'  de  wise 
ole  habitant,  dey  vote  for  Toppeur  an'  hees 
boy,  an'  I  t'ink  dey  ought  to  know  somet'ing 
'bout  de  bes'  kin'  of  politique  for  de  con- 
tree.  "  But  dat  's  good  chance  for  Alphonse, 
an'  he  say :  "  I  don't  care — w'en  I  was  habitant 
mese'f  on  Chateauguay,  I  mak'  wan  mistake 
on  de  farm,  an'  dat's  de  reason  I  'm  poor 
man,  an'  walk  de  road  to-day,  an'  glad  for 
sleep  on  de  barn  to-night.  I  don't  kip 
not'ing  but  de  ole  blood  on  ma  place — never 


The  Montmorcnci  Election 

he  say:  "Non,  non,  Laurier  was  de  mos' 
bes'  man-  —  he  's  Canayen  comme  nous  autres  ; 
'sides  dat  he  tak'  de  job  run  de  Gouvernment 
for  t'ousan'  dollar  a  year,  an'  Toppeur  won't 
do  not'ing  less  dan  twelve  honder  dollar. 
So  w'at  you  t'ink  of  dat?"  An'  Beauchemin 
he  say:  "W'at  I  t'ink  of  dat?  I  tole  you 
purty  soon.  Dat  's  true,  Toppeur  he  ax 
twelve  honder  dollar,  but  he  only  kip  t'ou- 


wit'  Alphonst.' 
boy,  so  you  get  tw^s^r^m^n^p^.  hard 


for  t\ft^rffe»frd^i6tf^W'  Wfak  dat  's 

better  trade  dan  t'ousan' 

man.     'Sides  dat,  all   de  pries' 

ole  habitant,  dev  an'  hees 

an'  I  t'ink  dey  't'ing 

1    de  bes'  kin'  <  de  con- 

But  dat  's  g>  Alphonse, 

I  don't  c  was  habitant 

n  Chateauguayr  In,,  n  mistake 

on  dt-   farm,  an'  dat's  >n  I  'm  poor 

walk  de  road  to-day,  an'  glad  for 

sleep    on    de    barn    to-night.     I    don't    kip 

not'ing  but  de  ole  blood  on  ma  place  —  never 


The  Montmorenci  Election    139 

no  new  blood  on  de  live  stock.  I  see  it  now, 
but  she  's  too  late,  so  I  say  dis;  w'at  's  bad 
for  de  farm  is  bad  for  Canadaw,  an'  w'at 's 
good  for  de  farm  is  good  for  Canadaw.  So, 
if  you  excuse  me,  I  say  we  mus'  have  new 
blood  on  de  Gouvernment,  an'  Laurier  he 
arrange  for  all  dat,  an'  only  t'ing  I  'm  sorry 
for  now,  I  got  no  vote — me — an'  can't  mak' 
de  cross  for  de  new  blood. " 

Mon  Dieu !  dat 's  mak'  Ducharme  mad, 
an'  he  say,  "We  '11  tak'  de  vote  on  dis  house, 
dat 's  bes'  way."  So  some  vote  rouge  for 
Laurier,  an'  some  vote  bleu  for  Toppeur  an' 
hees  boy,  but  Laurier  he  have  de  majorite  on 
dat  place.  Ducharme  preten'  he  's  very  sorry, 
but  he  say,  "We  're  all  good  frien'  togedder, 
an'  dere  's  no  use  makin'  de  row."  So  he 
sing  de  lee  tie  song  some  more,  an'  ev'ry- 
body  go  home  on  hees  bed  moche  please'  wit' 
de  beggar-man.  Wall,  sir!  two  week  dey 
work  lak'  dat,  an'  all  de  news  dey  hear,  down 
she  go  on  de  book ;  but  bes'  place  on  de  whole 
con-tree,  an'  dat 's  w'at  I  don't  lak'  talk 
'bout,  is  Ste.  Anne  de  Beaupre,  w'ere  dere  's 


140   The  Montmorenci  Election 

beeg  crowd  come  on  de  church  for  get  cure 
ev'ryt'ing, — dat  's  w'en  dey  're  busy  dem 
two  bad  young  man.  Walk  roun',  sing 
outside  de  hotel,  get  plaintee  monee,  hear 
all  'bout  how  de  peep'  was  goin'  to  vote  on 
de  'lection,  an'  mak'  frien'  wit'  ev'rybody. 
So  wan  night  Ducharme  he  say:  "Alphonse, 
I  t'ink  we  get  all  de  news  we  want,  de 
book  's  full  now,  an'  if  I  don't  come  off  dat 
crutch  purty  soon,  I  can't  walk  at  all. 
To-morrow  morning  I  see  good  chance  get 
away  from  dem  ole  stick,  an'  den  hooraw 
for  Kebeck!" 

"How  you  do  dat?"  Alphonse  is  ax. 
"Ev'ry  wan  know  you  're  lame  man,  an'  if 
you  're  lame  to-day  and  jomp  roun'  to- 
morrow lak'  spring  lamb  get  loss  on  de  bush, 
you  can  look  out  for  row  on  de  camp  sure, 
beeg  row  too!" 

"Wall!  wall!  Alphonse,  I  alway  s'pose 
you  're  smart  an'  mak'  de  good  lawyer,  but 
now  I  see  you  're  sapree  fou;  you  watch 
me  on  de  morning,  dat  's  all!" 

So  very  nex'  day  w'at  you  tink  he  do,  dat 


The  Montmorenci  Election    141 

cochon  Ducharme?  He  pass  wit'  de  grande 
procession  right  on  de  church — yass  sir,  an' 
affer  leetle  w'ile  w'en  it 's  come  good  chance, 
he  holler  out,  "I  'm  cure!  I  'm  cure!"  So  of 
course  all  hees  frien'  come  quick  an'  feel  heem 
here,  an'  feel  heem  all  de  place,  an'  sure 
enough  Ducharme  he  stan'  up  straight  lak'  de 
sojer  man  w'en  he  's  off  for  de  war.  ' '  Hooraw ! 
tak'  heem  out  on  de  fresh  air. "  "  No  sir,  you 
don't  tak'  me  no  fresh  air,  not  till  I  leave 
behin'  dis  ole  crutch,  was  carry  me  so  long!" 
An'  down  he  t'roo  it  on  de  floor.  Wall,  sir, 
affer  dat  you  can  bet  he  's  de  mos'  populaire 
young  man  on  Montmorenci,  don't  care  he 
never  sing  an'  tole  de  story  no  more — an' 
dere  was  two  free  peep',  smart  man  too, 
want  to  run  heem  for  de  politique,  but  no 
use,  he  's  boun'  for  go  on  hees  place  near 
Riviere  du  Loup  an'  work  on  de  farm,  now 
he  's  cure  on  de  lame  leg,  de  bad  lung,  an' 
de  rheumateez. 

Wat  happen  affer  dat?  Jus'  wait  a 
minute:  Ducharme,  w'en  he  's  ready  start 
for  Kebeck,  say  to  hees  frien',  "Alphonse, 


142    The  Montmorenci  Election 

it  's  fonny  t'ing  how  I  'm  homesick  for  dat 
ole  crutch  I  t'row  on  de  church,  an'  I  mus' 
get  it  back  before  I  leave  de  place;  'sides 
dat  I  want  show  it  on  my  Kebeck  frien* 
or  dey  won't  believe  me."  Alphonse  say: 
"You  tole  me  yesterday  I  'm  sapree  fou, 
now  I  tole  you  to-day  you  're  de  bigges* 
fool  I  never  see.  Dat 's  not  your  crutch 
now  —  soon  as  you  work  de  cure,  dat  crutch 
belong  on  de  church,  an'  if  you  mak'  troub* 
'bout  leetle  t'ing  lak'  dat  not  wort'  ten  cent, 
look  out  for  some  more  row  on  de  camp.'* 
But  Ducharme  got  de  beeg  swell  head,  an* 
won't  lissen  no  advice;  so  nex'  night,  w'en 
de  moon  's  behin'  de  cloud,  w'at  you  t'ink 
he  do,  dat  wicked  feller?  He  wait  till  de 
bedeau,  w'at  you  call  de  sexton,  go  asleep  on 
de  church  porch;  den  he  sneak  roun',  open 
some  winder,  pass  inside  on  de  church,  w'ere 
purty  soon  he  fin'  hees  ole  crutch,  an'  back 
he  come  on  de  winder  once  more.  But  I  'm 
glad  I  arrive  on  dis  part  of  de  story,  for 
dat  's  de  tarn'  de  moon  commence  for  shine 
an'  all  de  beeg  dog  an'  leetle  dog  too,  start 


The  Montmorenci  Election    143 

off  to  bark;  de  bedeau  on  de  church  wake 
up  an'  dere  's  dat  maudit  Ducharme  on  de 
winder  wit'  hees  crutch  look  lak'  gun  kill 
somebody,  an'  so  of  course  he  get  ketch  right 
off,  an'  very  nex'  morning  de  judge  place 
heem  on  de  jail  for  six  mont'  'cos  he  steal 
hees  own  crutch  off  de  church.  Yass  sir! 
an'  it 's  good  t'ing  too,  bad  young  man  lak' 
dat!  An'  dat 's  how  dem  politique  feller 
on  Kebeck  know  'bout  de  vote  on  de  con- 
tree  ;  but  affer  dat,  an'  specially  near  'lection 
tarn',  de  poor  beggar-man  don't  have  such 
good  tarn'  on  Montmorenci — no,  sir! 


PHILORUM  ABROAD 

FIRST    LETTER 
On  board  de  ship,  goin'  down  de  reever. 

MA  DEAR  JOHNNIE, 

I  feel  well  dis  morning,  t'ank  you,  an' 
I  hope  you  feel  well  too.  Wall!  Johnnie, 
it  's  bes'  t'ing  never  happen  me,  w'en  Pierre 
le  Due,  mon  oncle,  mak'  w'at  you  call 
"kick  de  bucket,"  on  Ste.  Flore,  'cos'  if 
somet'ing  lak'  dat  don't  come  roun'  soon, 
how  you  expec'  I  can  do  de  grande  tour 
on  Englan',  on  Scotlan',  an'  Irelan'?  No 
sir,  if  mon  bncle  don't  die  on  Ste.  Flore  jus' 
affer  he  sole  wan  hees  farm  for  good  cash 
price,  I  can't  tole  you  not'ing  about  dem 
contree  noder  side  de  sea,  an'  ma  frien', 
w'en  dey  meet  on  Hotel  du  Canadaw  some 
cole  night  nex'  winter,  won't  have  so  moche 
for  talk  about,  now  dere  's  no  election, 
unless  I  start  off  lak'  I  'm  doin'  now  for  mak' 

de  beeg  voyage,  an'  write  an'  tole  you  ev'ry- 
144 


Philorum   Abroad  145 

t'ing  since  I  buy  ma  couronnement  (dat  's 
coronation)  tiquette  on  Montreal. 

Wall,  mon  oncle  Pierre  le  Due  was  de  ole 
bachelor,  you  know,  so  w'en  he  die  an'  lef 
me  on  hees  will,  over  t'ousan'  dollar,  an'  nice 
lee  tie  farm  near  de  village,  no  mortgage, 
no  not'ing,  everyt'ing  clear,  so  I  say,  "Here  's 
ma  chance  to  see  de  worl',"  an'  now  dis 
morning,  hooraw!  I  'm  off  on  ma  travel  sure. 

Here  we  are  passin'  Sorel,  w'ere  I  use  to 
have  nice  girl  few  year  ago,  but  if  you  see 
Angelique  to-day,  you  won't  know  dat  girl, 
for  she  got  ten  children  an'  weigh  honder 
an'  eighty,  good!  Poor  Angelique!  wonder 
how  she  get  along  wit'  Joe  Boucher,  dat 
feller  she  marry  on  T'ree  Reever?  But 
Joe  's  purty  well  off,  even  if  he  only  mak' 
wan  cent  on  all  de  cow  hide  he  sell;  he  buy 
dem  five  cent  a  poun'  an'  sole  dem  for  six 
cent. 

It 's  very  pleasan'  t'ing  see  de  nice  clean, 
w'ite,  ole-fashion  house  along  de  reever  side, 
an'  ev'ryt'ing  look  lak'  fine  crop  on  de  fall. 
Bimeby  dere  's  de  beeg  rock  of  Kebeck  w'ere 


146  Philorum   Abroad 

ma  broder-in-law  kip  de  Hotel  Temperance, 
dat  's  hotel  got  not'ing  to  drink;  but  de 
ship  won't  stop,  only  long  enough  tak'  on 
anoder  pilot,  an'  den  away  for  Fader  Point 
an'  de  beeg,  beeg sea;  an'  purty  soon,  Johnnie, 
I  'm  de  sickes'  man  on  boar'  dat  ship — oh! 
dat  firse  morning!  An'  I  only  tak'  lee  tie 
pork  an'  bean  too,  wit'  seven  or  eight  sausage, 
for  breakfas'.  I  never  want  to  be  alone  so 
moche  before,  don't  want  nobody  come 
bodderin'  me,  so  I  go  upstair  an'  pass  behin' 
on  de  ship.  But  de  Captain  fin'  me  workin' 
away  over  de  side,  an'  he  say,  "Ma  poor 
Philorum,  you  don't  got  no  very  strong 
stomach";  an'  I  say,  "Wall!  I  dunno  'bout 
dat;  you  notice  how  far  I  trow  on  dat  las' 
shot  dere?"  Never  min',  I  was  all  right 
secon'  day,  an'  eat  all  de  pork  an'  bean  on  dat 
ship,  an'  den  I  begin  look  aroun'.  You 
know,  Johnnie,  I  alway  lak'  for  do  somet'ing 
mak'  leetle  money  sam'  as  oder  folk,  so 
w'en  I  fin'  out  de  ship  carry  beeg  pile  of  cattle, 
for  de  market  on  Lon-don  and  Glas-gow,  I 
tak'  'long  free,  four  cow,  an'  dat  beeg  black 


Philorurn   Abroad  147 

steer  Narcisse,  was  near  kill  Jimmie  Bou- 
dreau  las'  fall  w'en  he  's  comin'  ma  place;  an' 
dere  was  nice  young  cow  too,  half  Jersey 
shorthorn,  an'  she  's  jus'  full  of  milk  as 
cheese  factory,  w'en  she  arrive  on  board. 
Wall  sir,  in  less  dan  two  day,  dat  cow  go 
dry,  don't  geev  not 'ing  at  all,  only  small 
jug  of  milk,  an'  I  begin  t'ink  dat  's  funny 
beez-nesse,  mus'  be  somet'ing  wrong,  sure; 
so  wan  morning  'bout  de  sunrise  I  happen 
to  be  aroun',  for  you  know  I  'm  ole-style 
habitant  an'  get  up  early  every  day,  an' 
I  meet  wan  dem  fireman  on  boar'  de  ship 
comin'  along  wit'  fine  beeg  pail  of  milk,  an' 
I  say  to  mese'f — "Ha!  ha!  Philorum,  I  t'ink 
dat 's  your  cow,  sure!"  So  nex'  night,  w'en 
ev'ryt'ing  's  nice  an'  auiet,  w'at  you  t'ink  I 
do?  I  pass  on  de  stall  w'ere  ma  beeg  steer 
is  stay,  an'  I  wissle  leetle  bit,  an'  I  s'pose 
dat  wissle  mak'  Narcisse  feel  homesick,  an' 
tak'  heem  back  on  Ste.  Flore  w'en  he  was 
small  feller  runnin'  'roun'  on  de  farm,  an' 
he  's  jus'  as  quiet  as  de  sheep  affer  he  los'  hees 
hair  on  de  spring ;  so  I  tak'  Narcisse  an'  put 


148  Philorum   Abroad 

him  on  de  place  I  kip  ma  Jersey  shorthorn,  an' 
put  dat  cow  on  stall  where  Narcisse  is  alway 
stay,  an'  den  I  wait.  Wall,  sir!  affer  w'ile 
I  hear  tin  pail  rattle  an'  long  come  dat  fire- 
man was  t'ink  he  's  smart  feller.  I  dunno  if 
I  tole  you  we  got  plaintee  fog  dat  night,  wit' 
de  horn  blow,  blow  all  de  tarn',  w'at  de 
Captain  call  "dirty  night,"  an'  dat  fireman 
pass  on  de  stall  w'ere  he  expec'  to  fin'  de 
cow  all  ready  for  de  milk ;  an'  Narcisse  he  was 
lyin'  down  dere  for  res'  hese'f ,  so  dat  fireman 
he  say,  "Get  up,  get  up,  lazy  bone,"  an' 
Narcisse  get  up.  Wall!  Johnnie,  I  know  you 
hear  plaintee  beeg  noise  on  your  tarn' — me 
too,  but  w'en  Narcisse  get  up !  excuse  me — you 
'member  w'en  Adelard  Champagne  got  treed 
by  de  moose  an'  de  man  on  de  camp  hear 
heem  over  two  mile  away?  Dat  was  beeg 
row.  You  'member  w'en  Laurier  become 
de  boss  man  on  de  Gouvernment  an'  de 
crowd  is  wait  for  de  news  on  de  post  offeece, 
geev  wan  yell,  an'  den  hooraw  for  de  hotel, 
an'  de  ban'  play  "Vive  la  Canadienne"  an' 
"Oh!  Canadaw  mon  pays,  mes  amours"? 


Philorum   Abroad  149 

Dat  was  beeg  row  too.  Yass,  I  'm  sure 
you  don't  forget,  dough  you  vote  de  oder 
way  yourse'f;  but,  Johnnie,  dat 's  not'ing 
at  all  wit'  de  roar  of  Narcisse  w'en  he  's 
insult  by  dat  fireman.  I  s'pose  too  he  's 
cage  up  so  long  he  's  glad  get  some  excuse  for 
exercise  hese'f,  for  de  way  he  kick  dat  fire- 
man, an*  de  way  de  fireman  yell!  Oh!  dear 
Johnnie,  I  wish  you  be  dere,  it  would  mak' 
me  so  glad.  Of  course  de  Captain  on  de 
bridge  t'ink  dat  's  'noder  steamer  comin' 
along,  so  he  telegraph  engine  man  "stop  de 
ship,"  den  he  blow  de  horn  some  more. 
Wall  sir!  every  tarn'  dat  horn  go  off,  Nar- 
cisse answer  back,  an'  dat  's  mak'  t'ing 
worse  dan  before,  an'  all  de  tarn'  dat  fireman 
is  lyin'  dere  outside  de  stall,  an'  if  he  is  n't 
dead  yet,  it 's  only  'cos'  Narcisse  can't  get 
at  heem  no  more.  An'  den  de  sailor  man 
begin  to  shout,  "Hooraw  for  de  life  boat," 
an'  ev'rybody  is  very  moche  excite;  so 
w'en  dey 're  all  lak'  dat,  "Back  her  up," 
"Go  ahead!  dat  ship  mus'  be  purty  close 
now, "  an'  so  on  w'ile  Narcisse  is  makin'  hees 


150  Philorum   Abroad 

leetle  duet  wit'  de  foghorn,  I  t'ink  dat  's  good 
chance  for  me,  so  I  wissle  Narcisse  some  more, 
an'  den  I  tak'  heem  back  on  hees  ole  place, 
an'  put  ma  Jersey  shorthorn  w'ere  she  belong 
to.  Dat 's  all  right,  an'  purty  soon  Narcisse 
is  quiet  enough,  an'  w'en  de  Captain  don't 
hear  no  more  strange  foghorn,  he  tole  de 
engine  man  ' '  Correc' !  go  ahead !  de  ship  was 
safe,"  an'  off  we  start  again.  Bimeby  it  's 
daylight,  an'  somebody  fin'  de  poor  fireman 
lyin'  dere,  an'  w'en  he  's  come  aroun',  he 
tole  de  Captain  all  about  de  row:  how  he  go 
asleep  on  de  leetle  cowstall  'cos'  it  's  so  warm 
downstair,  an'  bimeby  w'en  he  's  waking  up 
de  leetle  cow  is  gone,  an'  dere  's  black  devil 
almos'  fill  de  stall,  he  's  so  beeg;  so  de  fireman 
begin  say  hees  prayer,  but  no  use — de  black 
devil  yell,  an'  roar,  an'  jomp  on  heem  an' 
eat  dat  fireman  up  till  he  don't  know  not 'ing 
more.  Mebbe  you  don't  believe  me,  but 
ev'rybody  believe  heem,  for  dey  say  only 
devil  can  bus'  a  man  dat  way,  till  nobody  can 
mak'  out  even  wan  of  dem  w'at  you  call 
tattoo  on  de  body  of  dat  poor  fireman,  an' 


Philorum   Abroad  151 

de  Captain  say,  "Dat  's  good  joke  on  de  devil 
'cos  he  ought  to  know  de  fireman  's  too 
tough  for  stay  on  hees  stomach," — but 
anyway  I  'm  satisfy  he  's  got  vaccinate 
leetle  bit,  an'  won't  steal  no  more  milk 
dis  trip,  sure!  Wall,  Johnnie,  w'en  I  look 
aroun'  an'  see  dem  poor  cow  all  pile  up 
togedder  so  close  you  might  expec'  affer 
a  w'ile  to  get  condense  milk,  I  feel  dough 
it 's  hard  enough  sometam'  for  be  a  man, 
still  it  's  worse  to  be  a  cow;  for  all  dose 
animal,  soon  as  dey  get  fat  enough  on  Cana- 
daw,  off  dey  go  to  Englan',  w'ere  dey  're 
kill  right  away,  mak'  beef  for  de  Englishman. 
Dat  's  purty  hard,  an'  specially  too  on  nice 
Canadian  cow,  so  I  mak'  some  song  about 
dat  las'  night,  an'  I  call  it 

DE  LEETLE  Cow  OF  STE.  FLORE. 

Oh !  it  's  sailin'  away  on  de  sea  we  go, 
Dat  's  song  de  engine  is  sing  below — 
Bringin'  us  nearer  to  Angleterre, 
W'ere  every  wan  's  waitin'  to  eat  us  dere. 


152  Philorum  Abroad 

'T  was  only  leetle  small  place  Ste.  Flore, 
But  de  grass  is  green  by  de  reever  shore, 
An'  de  clover  was  grow  on  de  medder  groun' 
Is  de  sweetes'  clover  for  miles  aroun'. 

De  barn  on  de  winter  you  'd  hardly  see — 
But  cosy  an'  beeg  enough  too  for  me — 
An'  oh!  w'en  de  summer  sun  is  hot, 
I  can  show  you  many  a  nice  cool  spot. 

So  I  jomp,  an'  run  wit'  res'  of  de  cow, 
Get  fatter,  an'  fatter — jus'  look  at  me  now! 
But  de  harder  to  squeeze  t'roo  de  stable  door, 
De  beeger  de  chances  for  leave  Ste.  Flore. 

An'  many  a  tarn'  ma  gran'moder  say, 

' '  If  you  don't  look  out  you  '11  be  goin'  away— 

So  eat  an'  drink  de  leetle  you  can, 

Or  you  '11  mak'  some  beef  for  de  Englishman! " 

Foolish  young  heifer!  not  moche  I  care — 
For  I  t'ink  she  's  only  an  ole  gran'mere— 
But  if  Ste.  Flore  ever  see  me  back, 
She  can  boss  me  aroun'  any  way  she  lak'. 

An'  I  'd  tak'  her  advice,  an'  I  would  n't  get  fat, 
Ma  compatriot  frien',  you  can  bet  on  dat. 
But  if  I  can't  help  it,  some  Canayen 
Better  eat  me  instead  of  sapree  Anglais ! 


Philorum  Abroad  153 

If  dey  geev  me  a  chance,  an'  leave  me  untied, 
Quickly  you  '11  see  me  jomp  over  de  side, 
But  dey  watch  me  an'  feed  me  an'  water  me 

too, 
So  w'at  can  de  leetle  Ste.  Flore  cow  do? 

Not'ing  at  all  only  night  an'  day 
T'ink  of  de  ole  place  far  away*— 
De  reever,  de  medder,  I  '11  see  no  more — 
Oh!   ma  heart  is   breakin'!     Good-bye  Ste. 
Flore! 

Wall!  Johnnie,  w'at  you  t'ink  'bout  dat 
for  de  poesie  ? 

SECOND   LETTER 

GLASGOW  on  de  hotel. 

MA  DEAR  JOHNNIE, - 

Dat 's  free  week  since  I  arrive  on  dis 
contree,  but  I  can't  write  you  not'ing  at  all 
before  I  settle  dat  beez-nesse  about  ma 
Jersey  shorthorn,  an'  affer  I  finish  tolin'  you 
de  w'ole  story,  den  I  '11  be  able  to  geev 
you  some  news  of  de  many  t'ing  I  see  no 
Scotlan'. 

Wall,   sir,   ius'   so  soon  we  begin  unload 


i54  Philorum  Abroad 

dat  ship,  an'  I  'm  lookin'  aroun'  for  get 
smart  feller  help  me  drive  dem  cattle  on  de 
market,  along  come  Scotch  man  wit'  some 
brass  button,  an'  he  say  I  mus'  go  on  de 
quarantine  wit'  ma  cow!  I  say,  "Wat, 
for?  Dat  's  good  healthy  Canadian  cow 
jus'  fresh  off  de  pasture  "  ;  an'  he  say  he  don't 
care  not 'ing  for  de  pasture,  dey  got  be  very 
strict  about  Canadian  cow,  an'  he  ax  me 
ma  nam',  an'  I  say  Philorum  Juneau  from 
Ste.  Flore,  dat  's  me,  an'  I  try  heem  writ' 
fifty  cent  let  me  pass,  but  no  use;  it  's  not 
enough  I  s'pose,  or  mebbe  de  p'leeceman  's 
watchin',  so  off  we  go,  everybody,  an'  soon 
we  're  on  beeg  place  w'ere  dere  's  w'ole  lot 
cattle:  poll  Angus,  Hereford,  Jersey,  an' 
some  I  never  see  before,  but  I  can't  fin' 
not'ing  wrong  wit'  dem  at  all.  Wall,  w'en 
ma  turn  come,  de  secon'  boss  man  look  at 
me  an'  say,  "Philorum,  I  s'pose  your  cow 
never  have  de  pleuro  new  money?"  An' 
I  say:  "Mebbe  dey  have  de  pleuro,  but  I  'm 
sure  dey  ain't  got  de  new  money,  'cos'  I  got 
dat  mese'f  from  mon  oncle  Pierre  le  Due, 


Philorum  Abroad  155 

't  was  ole  money  for  heem,  but  it  's  new 
money  for  me."  Johnnie,  dey  say  Scotch 
man  never  see  not'ing  funny  w'en  you  mak' 
w'at  you  call  de  joke,  but  ba  gosh!  dis  feller 
laugh  an'  laugh  away,  lak'  bes'  t'ing  he  never 
hear,  w'en  dere  's  no  joke  at  all,  an'  dat  's 
very  funny,  so  I  mak'  leetle  laugh  mese'f 
too.  Den  affer  he  's  finish  wit'  ma  Jersey 
shorthorn,  he  commence  talk  lak  de  judge 
w'en  he  's  put  on  de  black  cap  for  hang 
some  poor  man  on  de  long  speech, — "Phil- 
orum, your  cow  have  two  wart  on  de  nose." 
An'  I  say,  "I  know  ma  cow  have  two  wart  on 
de  nose,  how  many  dem  t'ing  you  want?" 
An'  he  speak  wance  more  lak'  de  same  judge, 
"I  'm  very  sorry  for  you,  ma  frien'."  Den 
he  bring  de  head  boss  man,  an'  dat  feller  look 
at  dem  wart  wit'  small  spy  glass,  an'  he  say 
to  de  oder  man,  "Mister  MacTavish,  I  see  free 
wart  on  de  nose,  two  beeg  wart,  an'  'noder 
leetle  wan  was  come  bimeby. "  "  Wall, ' '  I  say, 
"  w'at 's  matter  wit'  dat  ?  I  can  show  you  cow 
on  Ste.  Flore  wit'  four  wart  on  de  nose,  an'  all 
beeg  wan  too."  An'  de  head  boss  man  say, 


i56  Philorum  Abroad 

"I  can't  help  dat,  your  cow  got  de  bad 
disease,  an'  I  'm  scare  de  Gouvernment 
mus'  kill  dat  cow  an'  burn  her  up  right 
away!"  "No  siree!  you  don't  kill  dat 
cow,  not  before  I  write  ma  frien'  Wilfrid 
Laurier,  an'  tole  heem  how  you  treat  good 
Canadian  cow."  An'  dey  say,  "Excuse 
me,  you're  frien'  of  Sir  Wilfrid  Laurier?" 
"Yes,  I  'm  de  bes'  frien'  he  have  on  de 
woiT,  an'  he  mak'  beeg  row  about  dis  job 
sure."  Oh!  dear  Johnnie,  mebbe  dem  feller 
don't  be  scare!  "Wall,  M'sieu'  Juneau,  de 
rule  on  de  book  say,  all  Canadian  cow  wit' 
wan  wart  only  on  de  nose,  she  mus'  quaran- 
tine for  free  mont',  two  wart,  six  mont',  an' 
free  wart,  mus'  kill  dat  cow  right  away. 
We  can't  help  dat — we  're  sorry,  but  it 's 
not  our  fault.  Now  for  de  reason  you  're 
de  bes'  frien'  Sir  Wilfrid  Laurier  have  on  de 
worl'  we  won't  count  dat  number  t  'ree  wart  ; 
anyhow  it 's  not  dere  yet,  'less  you  look 
wit'  de  spy  glass,  but  if  dere  's  free  wart 
now  to-day,  not  even  Sir  Wilfrid  Laurier, 
accordin'  to  de  book,  can  save  dat  cow;  so 


Philorum  Abroad  157 

de  bes'  we  can  do  is  to  place  your  Jersey 
shorthorn  on  quarantine  for  six  mont',  an' 
den  if  she  's  all  right  you  can  sole  her  on  de 
market  any  tarn'  you  lak'."  "Wall,  gen- 
tlemen, I  tole  you  w'at  I  do — I  write  on  ma 
Ste.  Flore  frien',  an'  dey  '11  feex  it  all  up 
about  dat  cow,  so  jus'  kip  her  dere  on  quar- 
antine for  leetle  w'ile,  till  I  come  back  here 
bimeby. "  Dat  satisfy  dem  Scotchman  an' 
off  I  go.  Dat 's  free  week  ago,  Johnnie,  an' 
w'ile  I  'm  wait  for  letter  from  Ste.  Flore,  I 
mak'  de  visite  all  roun'  here  an'  dere,  every 
place,  an'  I  '11  tole  you  about  dat  on  nex' 
letter,  but  to-day  I  receive  news  from  de  ole 
place,  an'  w'en  I  go  on  de  quarantine  dis  is 
w'at  I  show  dem  feller — 

BUREAU  DE  J.  B.  VALIQUETTE, 
Office  Hour.  Notaire  Publique, 

All  de  tarn'.  Ste.  Flore,  Province  de  Quebec. 

"  We  hereby  certify,  an'  swear  dat  de 
cow  known  as  Jersey  shorthorn  cow  tak' 
away  by  Philorum  Juneau,  w'en  said 
Philorum  Juneau  sail  for  Englan',  is  born 
wit'  two  wart  on  de  nose,  an'  if  said 


158  Philorum  Abroad 

cow  got  some  more  wart  on  de  nose,  it  is 
certainly  for  de  reason  she  was  ketch 
dem  wart  affer,  an'  not  before  she  leave 
de  Parish  of  Ste.  Flore.  Also  an'  not- 
wit'standing,  an'  furdermore,  on  behalf 
of  de  Chambre  de  Commerce  of  Ste.  Flore, 
we  protes'  very  strongly  agains'  de  Gouvern- 
ment  of  Angleterre  w'en  dey  want  to  kill 
de  good  Canadian  cow  only  because  she 
have  free  wart  on  de  nose. 

"  (Signed)    TELESPHORE  BONENFANT,  J.  P. 

"  J.  B.  VALIQUETTE,  N.  P. 
"  Witness 

His 
"  JEREMIE  PELOQUIN  X 

mark. " 


House  at  Cobalt  where  Dr.   Drummond  Died. 


Jl  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Complete  Catalogues  sent 
on  application 


By  WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND 

The  Voyageur 

And  Other  Poems 

ILLUSTRATED  BY  FREDERICK  S.  COBURN 

Uniform  with  the  earlier  works. 

Popular  Edition.     Crown  octavo,   gilt  top,  illustrated.     (By  mail,  $1.35) 

net  $1.25 

Photogravure  Edition,  with  16  full-page  photogravure  illustrations.  Octavo, 
gilt  top,  in  a  box.  (By  mail,  $2.65)  ....  net  $2.50 

"  Dr.  Drummond  in  his  former  volumes  of  verse  has  interpreted  for  us  the  simple  life 
of  the  Canadian  folk.  In  the  present  volume  the  same  theme  is  pursued,  hut  there  is 
endless  variety.  One  is  convinced  that  the  author  saw  the  places  that  he  describes, 
laughed  with  his  characters,  mourned  with  them,  bu.  above  all,  that  he  loved  them  and 
took  a  virile  joy  in  their  lives  and  in  making  them  his  companions." — The  Outlook. 

The   Habitant 

And  Other  French-Canadian   Poems 

With  an  Introduction  by  the  French- Canadian  Poet-Laureate 

Louis  FRECHETTE 
ILLUSTRATED  BY  FREDERICK  SIMPSON  COBURN 

Popular  Edition.  Crown  octavo,  gilt  top,  illustrated.  (By  mail,  $1.35) 

net  $1.25 

Photogravure  Edition,  with  13  full-page  illustrations  in  photogravure  and 
text  cuts  from  original  designs.  Octavo,  gilt  top,  in  a  box.  (By  mail, 
$2.65) net  $2.50 

"  Unconventional,  captivating." — New  York  Tribune, 

"  Plenty  of  true  humor  here   ' — New  York  Sun, 

"  Fresh  and  racy  in  flavor  and  deftly  rhymed." — Chicago  Dial. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  equal  it  in  fun-making." — boston  Globe. 

The  Great  Fight 

Poems  and  Sketches 

Edited,  with  a  Biographical  Sketch,  by  MAY  HARVEY  DRUMMOND. 
ILLUSTRATED  BY  FREDERICK  SIMPSON  COBURN 

Popular    Edition.     Crown    8vo,    gilt   top,    illustrated.     (By  mail,   $1.35) 

net,  $1.25 

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Quarter  Calf,  gilt  top,  in  a  box.  (By  mail,  $2.65)  .  net  $2.50 

"  Both  author  and  artist  enter  most  heanily  and  sympathi'tica'ly  into  the  life  of 
Lower  Canada,  and  portray  its  humor  and  pathos,  its  spirit  and  legend*,  in  a  way  that  is 
finding  a  world-wide  audience."  —  Chri$ti  m  'Guardian^  Toronto. 

New  Yofk—G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SOVS-London 


By  WILLIAM  HENRY   URUMMOND 

Johnnie  Courteau 

And  Other  Poems 

ILLUSTRATED  BY  FREDERICK  SIMPSON  COBURN 
Popular  edition.     Crown  octavo,  gilt  top.     Illustrated.     (B) 

mail,  $1.35) net  $1.25 

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"Johnnie  Courteau"  and  ''The  Habitant" 
2  vols.,  %  calf.     Sets  only         .         .         .         .         net  $5.00 

"  It  is  not  his  clever  manipulation  of  the  patois  alone  that  has  brought 
him  popularity.  He  knows  the  kindly,  simple  people  that  speak  it  to  the 
core  ;  he  is  master  of  a  telling  minor  touch  of  pathos,  he  has  humor,  and  a 
wide  sympathy  with  the  French  country  folk  of  the  Dominion.  He  has 
worthily  earned  a  place  in  the  literature  of  Canada.  He  has  the  human 
touch." — Mail  and  Express. 

Autograph    Edition.        "  Johnnie  Courteau  "   and  "  The 

Habitant." 

Limited  to  1000  numbered  sets.  Each  volume  contains 
the  author's  autograph  and  a  facsimile  of  the  original 
manuscript. 

Two   volumes,  with    illustrations  in    photogravure    from 

original  designs  by  F.  S.  Coburn.  In  a  box    .    net  $10.00 

Phil-o-Rum's  Canoe 

AND    MADELEINE    VERCHERES.      Two    Poems.      With   five 

photogravure  illustrations  by  Frederick  Simpson  Coburn. 

Crown  octavo   .          ......         75  cts. 

"  In  '  Phil-o-Rum's  Canoe*  Dr.  Drummond  opens  up  the  founts  of  tears 
and  laughter,  and  touches  the  simpler  things  of  life,  so  as  to  stir  the 
depths  of  human  tenderness." — Montreal  Gazette. 

"  Breathes  throughout  the  odors,  and  pulses  with  the  life  of  the  primeval 
forest." — Evening  Post,  Chicago, 

New  York—  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS—  London 


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